


To The Realm Of The Sky

by gelishan



Series: To The Realm Of The Sky 'verse [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barebacking, Break Up, Character Development through Sex, Consensual Violence, Enthusiastic Consent, Everyone Drinks Terrible Alcohol, F/M, Getting Together, Good BDSM Etiquette, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Healing Sex, Healthy Relationships, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Humiliation kink, Kink, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Miscommunication, Post-Break Up, Sadism, Slow Burn, Submission, Trauma, Truth Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, can it count as slow burn if everyone has lots of sex, in one scene eventually, like 5 seconds of... ageplay? feminization? daddy kink? whatever it is matt doesn't respond well, minor Matt Murdock/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 89,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelishan/pseuds/gelishan
Summary: Losing yourself in a relationship is simple.  Finding yourself is not.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Claire Temple, Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: To The Realm Of The Sky 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158503
Comments: 85
Kudos: 39





	1. Elektra

**Author's Note:**

> See those tags? If any of them are triggering or otherwise a problem for you, _please read something else._ This story is _so very about all those tags._ Overt kink stuff is going to take a while, if that matters to you, but NSFW stuff starts pretty much right away.
> 
> Title comes from S.J. Tucker’s Neptune. 
> 
> Beta, critique, and one line by the ever-helpful [Upupanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway), whose work is very worth reading if you haven't already. Further beta and martial arts proofreading by templewulf.

After they’ve sullied the ring at Fogwell’s together, he tells her, “I love you the same way I love God.”

Her fist thuds into his shoulder hard enough to ache. “That’s disgusting, Matthew.” His rotator cuff muscles twinge, and she smirks like she can tell. “ _You’re_ disgusting.”

He inhales the words. They scrape against his lungs, embed themselves warm and spiky against his ribcage. The pulse behind them thrums truth, exhilaration, and affection. 

She really believes he’s disgusting, and she glories in it. And he _is_ disgusting, to make the comparison and believe it. “But I’m your disgusting,” he says.

“All mine,” she agrees happily. She folds her arms and lounges back, each movement slight and sparing. “Tell me the filthy details, Matthew.” 

He does his best to obey. Elektra’s love, he says, is like the God of the Old Testament. Ever-present, unconditional, but mercurial, violent. It demands his focused will, liquid offerings on his door of an honesty that should humiliate, truths that stream hot until he can’t differentiate between their flow and the pulse of his bloodstream. It leaves him terrified and exhilarated and ecstatic.

Her hands and lips roam, hungry and distracting, while he speaks. She sucks the truths from him until he runs dry.

“I like you,” she laughs into his collarbone when he’s finished. “More worship services for me tomorrow?”

“Next week. With better supplies,” he says. “We were _very_ irresponsible today.” He threads his fingers through her hair, the brush of its strands tacky and humid. “We should stop by Health Services for STI testing.” It’s the right thing to do, but it’s hard to worry. Every touch between them feels honed and ideal. He never wants anyone else’s. Catching whatever she has feels inevitable.

“STI testing and Plan B,” she says.

He shrugs, even though the idea sends a twist of guilt through him. “If you insist.”

“Such a good boy,” she coos. The praise is another twist, all his muscle fibers and nerves gathered in a bundle and squeezed. Raw and warped and rapturous. “Such a terrible Catholic.”

“At least I’m too Catholic to recommend condoms next time.”

She leans closer, brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. “Condoms are overrated,” she whispers, breath scaldingly hot. “I want to feel you exactly the way you are. My incredible disaster.”

He believes it of her. He _trusts_ her, a failing Stick tried to drill out with meditation and muay thai and abandonment. But Stick couldn’t have anticipated the liquid truths, the challenge, the scratches along his back that puff and heat at the edges.

She’s worth trusting. He has faith.

* * *

The first time he met her, he wasn’t interested. She was attractive, certainly, it consumed him like wildfire. The higher base temperature of an athlete, the artfully perfect skin of a socialite. Everything around her rich and bright. Dress a soft, expensive charmeuse he wanted to run his hands down. Voice thick and textured and vibrant like magma.

Everything almost custom-made for his desires. Everything screaming against his instincts. Wildfires destroy the world in swaths, choke it with smoke and vortices and ash.

But her cruelty crackled under his skin, sparked attention and wakefulness through him. The adrenaline of a fight. They had little in common-- social backgrounds, interests, morals-- other than a taste for adrenaline. It was enough to start.

He’s glad he didn’t listen to his instincts this time. Because those things that they didn’t have in common didn’t matter. What does matter: she _understands_ him.

She understands the theft of a childhood. She talked about her own as they splayed across the hood of a car they’d stolen together. How she’d been adopted by Hugo Kostas Natchios at one year old, so young she shouldn’t have been able to remember. She did. It lived in her, in the sense of abandonment, of never belonging. In the way she still wondered what they saw in her that was worth giving up. 

She’d spent years hunting for her birth family, trying to find answers, before deciding she really didn’t want to know. He understood that all too well.

He’d wrapped his arms around her and held her close while she spoke. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “You were a baby.” He knew, better than anyone, that it wouldn’t help. He's never found out what does. 

They both lay in the greenish-yellow tree pollen on the car hood, and in one of her rare concessions to his blindness, she described the constellations in the sky. He’d thought about how lucky he was, that standoffish Elektra would trust him with these vulnerabilities, trust him to stand between her and her memories with raised fists.

It was the first time he told her a story of his own. A small one, about the friends he’d lost in the orphanage, year after year, and how he was never allowed to be sad about it because they had families now.

She smiled, stroked his hair, praised him for his honesty. And told him that was boring. That this time, he should tell her something he thought she’d _hate_ hearing.

He did. He’s been continuing ever since, the bluntness, the sincerity, the honesty even when it churns. She wants him to be the truest self he can be, even when that self is disgusting. It breaks him down in the most precious ways-- he has no ego with her, no secrets. He’s just a part of her life, unmoored and content.

He wants to spend the rest of his life as a part of her.

* * *

So the worship services continue.

Months of dizzying discovery tumbling after discovery-- trying, improvising, learning what feels best. Sex toys of various sizes, shapes, and functions. (Her favorite is the Rabbit, but she hates its violent pink.) His hands around her neck. (Exquisite.) A flogger, once, but they tuck it to the back of her chest of drawers. 

They accumulate tools but rarely use them. They never plan that far in advance. They just use whatever they have on hand, voices and fingernails and body weight.

He throws her onto the bed. Before she’s regained her balance, he’s pinned her face-down, hand at her nape, knee behind her lower back. She tries to push herself up, to twist her shoulders around, but he pins her shoulder more firmly to the bed with his elbow. “I win,” he says, breathless and smug.

He bites at the inside of her thigh.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Harder, Matthew,” she says, cool and commanding. “You can do better than that.” 

She invents his desires, sculpts them from his malleable clay. He rarely has to tell her what he wants. But on the most beautiful days, she requires it of him. 

She slams him against the brick wall at Fogwell’s and twists his arms behind his back. His heart is pounding. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else,” she breathes into his ear. “Something sordid.”

“I-- ahh!” Her hand slides under his waistband, intrusive and demanding. “I don’t have anything in mind,” he pants.

“Try again, Matthew.” She squeezes, with a little more force than he enjoys. “Tell me the truth.”

It opens something in him and the molten truths pour out again. “I want to drag you across the room by that long, beautiful hair,” he says. “Hard enough to make you cry out. I want to reach between your legs and feel exactly how much you like it.”

He aches with the shame of it. It’s not how he feels about women. It’s not how he feels about Elektra. But it’s what he wants, painfully, terribly.

She grins triumphantly and releases him. “Good boy. Let’s get started, shall we?”

She never fails to deliver his desires.

Then she delivers him Roscoe Sweeney. 

“Matthew, you remember the son of a bitch who killed your father?” she says, casually, and for a moment, he’s exhilarated, dizzy with love. She listened so closely to the things that have hurt him. She wants to give him this gift of carnage and retribution.

Then she tells Matt to kill him, and he realizes, too late, that her love had conditions after all. A blood price he can’t pay. A true self too disgusting for him to bear.

Her love vanishes that cold September evening when he fails to sacrifice what she needs. The open door sways behind her. He’s not her disaster anymore. He’s not sure what he is.

He vomits champagne into Roscoe Sweeney’s sink.

The acrid, oversweet smell cuts into Matt’s senses. He fumbles for the tap with his fist and lets the water drain away, but the smell and taste are inescapable. The metallic cold of her unrighteous anger. The acid of idolatrous words he can’t unsay or un-mean.


	2. September

Sensory input pools in chaotic swirls and eddies. Footsteps feel like dishwater. Laughter smells like broken glass. He’s tossed helpless in the currents.

He narrowly manages a mass email to his professors. Family emergency, he writes, then collapses. No energy left. No earplugs or headphones to block chaos. He pulls the blankets over his head, buries his head into dust and slowly decaying pillow feathers, and strains to sharpen his mind into meditation. 

He strains for hours. Days? He’s lost count. Once, he tries to sip tap water and it tastes of blood and black mold, and he’s vomiting in the sink again. 

He staggers back to bed. His head squeezes and pounds. His limbs are ice. 

Next time he’s aware, his center of gravity tilts sickeningly. Weight indents the edge of his mattress, a person’s weight. He hadn’t even registered dishwater footsteps in the room. Stick would be so ashamed.

“I haven’t seen you move for days, buddy.” A hand taps, warmth so startling against the ice that he hisses and jerks his shoulder away. “You alive?”

It’s a familiar voice. His roommate. He hasn’t paid much attention to the man since school started. They’ve been polite, but only just: the initial fumbling flirtation was too awkward to ignore. 

He tries to remember his name through the pounding.

“I’m fine, Foggy,” he finally manages. “Thank you.”

A grinding, gritty noise of teeth on lip. So _loud_. “It’s Franklin, actually, but you know what? I like Foggy. Gonna use that.”

A building over, a woman sits on a wooden porch, breath hitching with discreet saltwater. No elevated pulses nearby. No one sees her.

“ _Have_ you moved for days? Eaten anything? Had water?” Foggy’s words reflect and bend against the walls of the room, melt into the woman’s quiet sobs.

Matt buries his head. Tugs the sack of dusty feathers closer to his ears. 

Distantly, a pulse accelerates into a guilty staccato. Someone’s spotted the crying woman. A considering freeze. Then a head swivels back to the street, footsteps go brisk. The pulse slows, but guilt keeps it from its base tempo.

The weight shifts off the mattress. Soft feet tread towards the exit. He clutches his stomach against the sudden shockwaves.

The click of the door is deafening.

He can’t pull his focus from the woman. The porch she’s on, buzz of cicadas and stale paint. Taste of salt and misery. 

He barely registers when the door clicks back open.

“Here.” Round plastic slides under Matt’s hand. It’s cold and smooth, and its lid is slightly ajar. A smear of its contents presses through the crack.

Potatoes. Just potatoes. Simple, neutral. He sniffs again.

A second pulse spikes, a faster one, sharpening into simple worry. Papers rustle against vinyl and neoprene. Wood creaks under tiptoes.

“No butter,” his roommate says, close and warm. “Bland things are easier to keep down. I’ve got a fork if you want one.” 

A bottle rests on Foggy’s leg, cold circle of condensation soaking into jeans and flesh. 

The tiptoes thump onto the floor and a bookbag drops. A little girl whispers, “Are you okay?”

He’s not. He never wants to eat again. “I’m not hungry.”

“C’mon, buddy.” The hand cradles the ridge of his shoulder. Firm, unmoving, drenched in heat and faint lavender hand soap. “If you can’t do this, we’ve gotta take you to Health Services.”

“No,” the crying woman hiccups. The girl’s tiny arms tuck around a larger one. Their warmth merges.

Matt aches. “I’m fine,” he says. This isn’t bad enough for intervention. He can deal with it. Can handle these sounds, harsh in his mind. He’s handled worse.

“That’s the thing. I don’t think you can.” Foggy’s tone is as steady as his hand. Only then does Matt realize he’d been speaking out loud. “You haven’t eaten or drunk anything. I heard you throw up last night.” Heart beating a little fast. Concern, sincere and genuine. “People can only survive for three days without water and you’re on two.”

“No Health Services,” he grinds out.

“Then help me out, man.” Foggy sighs, and the hand on his shoulder squeezes. “Show me you can deal with this. Eat something. Or have water, at least.” 

“Shhh, shhh.” The girl pats the woman’s arm in an echoing timpani beat. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Fine. If it means being left alone, he’ll do it. He can do this.

He gropes for the cylinder of cold and condensation. At the last moment, it tilts away from him (Stick would be ashamed of him, so ashamed) and he grabs a handful of thigh instead, warm and yielding and twitching. He uses it to haul himself upright.

“Hey, good job!” Foggy’s voice is overbright, awkward, but his veins course with sincerity. “Here.” He cracks the plastic seal. One hand presses the bottle into Matt’s palm; the other gently curls his fingers around it.

Foggy’s nostrils flare, and his heartbeat picks up. Matt’s not surprised: he can’t smell particularly good right now.

He nods assent and manages to down half the bottle, though he chokes a few times. Everything still tastes of copper and iron. But Foggy was right. Each gulp feels thick against his tongue. Water shouldn’t be thick.

Foggy is a soft, radiant pillar of warmth and concern.

After his final swallow, he exhales hard and hands the bottle back to Foggy. Foggy nods and tucks it between his knees. 

“Can you eat the potatoes?” he says.

Swamps of nausea. He can’t even consider it. “No.”

The woman’s sobs are subsiding. Only slightly louder than the girl’s rhythmic patting now. “Feel better,” says the girl.

“That’s fine.” Foggy wipes his hands on his thighs. “I’ll put them in the fridge. You had some water, that’s enough for now.”

Matt’s hands are unsteady. “Thank you.” His voice feels corroded. He has a vague memory that he should be polite.

“Thank you,” says the woman to the little girl, her voice a little less hollow. 

“No problem.” Foggy’s weight shifts off the bed, and the shockwaves are less nauseating this time. A whoosh of opening fridge, a slide of plastic, and the door claps shut. Then Foggy stands there and stands there, noiseless but for the hitch in his breathing. 

“Whatever’s happening, you don’t have to talk about it,” he says finally. “But if you want to, I’m here, buddy. I care.” His heart beats steady, painful, confusing truth.

The door creaks shut. Matt lets gravity pull him backwards, onto the pillow this time. The air of the room weighs against his face.

For hours, Matt has listened to people ignore the woman on the porch. Step past her. Miss her entirely. Decide she wasn’t worth the trouble.

Foggy would have stopped to help.

* * *

The next day, Matt manages to eat some of the potatoes. 

* * *

Everything else gets worse once he separates his senses enough to leave his room.

Smells send him to a blank, nonverbal void. Earthy car exhaust. Sharp, bitter champagne fizz. They belong to Elektra and shudders.

Elektra was attraction, and he hears attraction everywhere. He _knows_ he’s dishevelled, unwashed, stubbled. Doesn’t seem to matter. Blood courses and tangles noisily through people’s bodies, lingering in outcroppings and crannies.

He has to coax it, ordinarily. Be disarming. Convince people to look past the blindness. Now he’s disarmed, and everyone with a weakness for vulnerability is taking a shot. 

The sounds that filter in are worse. Glass and ceramic dropped to the floor, shattering the stillness, dragging him back to the night that reeks of blood and champagne. He feels a powerful, irrational compulsion to run to the noises and _destroy_ them. To punch the broken bottles until shards of glass are embedded in his fists.

Students break a lot of beer bottles.

But the bottles aren’t the worst. Worst are the sounds of the little girl. He’s absently tracked her since she comforted the crying woman on the steps. Her name is Elise. She’s almost six. She likes gummi bears and Legos and Princess Elsa. At night she makes pained, wounded noises, and he doesn’t know why. 

She’s barely six and has a rare kindness. He _needs_ the world to be kind to her back.

Taste is his only sanctuary. These bland, significant potatoes. They’re all he can stomach. Everything else ends up in the sink. Every time he finishes a container, Foggy disappears for a half hour and returns with another.

* * *

The sixty-seventh time someone drops a bottle of beer, he loses it.

He walks back to his room, to his bed, and slams his hand into the pillow, loud and dissonant. The roommate he’d missed again startles and jerks his head up. He seems far away. 

Matt’s fist hits the pillow again. Again. _Again._ In his mind, he’s cracking Roscoe Sweeney’s face. Punching fists bloody on broken bottles. Reaching to the bottom of the well of pain he feels over Elektra, pouring it all out, but his bucket is riddled with holes. It spills everywhere.

When he emerges from his haze, the pillow’s seam has split open. Feather tufts are floating in the air. Everything inside is distorted ice.

Foggy’s heart pounds, adrenaline has sprouted to his limbs. He sounds like he’s running for his life. “Feel better, buddy?” No adrenaline sprouts in his voice, though. It’s wry, but kind. Barely shakes.

Of course he feels better, Matt should say. A self-deprecating laugh to set Foggy at ease, an apology. He can’t. Staying on his feet is all his energy. Nothing’s left. 

“No.” The building’s ancient HVAC system groans and blusters. “I can’t meditate. I can’t focus. She’s _everywhere._ ” He feels frozen and humiliated and something’s crawling under his skin.

Foggy’s breath stutters, like he hadn’t expected an answer. “Who’s everywhere?” 

“Elektra.” The name coats his tongue in cinders. Love of his life. His golden calf. “My ex.” He practically chokes on it.

Foggy nods. His heart still beats too-fast, but warmer. His fingers flex a desire to reach out and touch. “Want to talk about it?”

“I don’t. I want to make it stop.” The HVAC system growls louder and louder. He rubs across his forehead, flattens a hand over his ear. As though that could block anything. “What do I do, Foggy?”

“Assuming you can keep something down besides potatoes? Drink, traditionally.” He’s bright, cheery. Levels exaggerated for his audience, but he means it. Footsteps pad over to the fridge, and it creaks open. “What’s your poison? Frat boy choice is Bud Lite--”

“ _Not beer_.” Another bottle smashes to punctuate the point. Not champagne either. Or whisky. Elektra knows he likes Macallan, it’s tainted. “Something from a can. No whisky, beer, or champagne.” 

“Picky. And weird.” To Matt’s relief, it’s amiable, not irritated. “But okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

The only thing they have that fits, it turns out, is a case of Clubtails Screwdrivers. He clutches a can too tight, crumpling the aluminum, and returns to his desk. His wooden seat digs pain stripes into his legs. 

The drink is cloying nausea and artificial orange and a none-too-sanitary factory environment. He retches, then chugs the whole thing. It doesn’t matter. He’s not trying to enjoy himself, just drown everything out. 

Foggy stands next to him at the desk, head pointed unmoving towards him. Something he’s used to-- people assume the blind person won’t notice them staring. It’s fine.

The more of the screwdriver he drinks, the more Foggy’s head tilts, neck retracts. A disbelieving posture. His pulse, though, feels contented, happy. It makes Matt’s neck prickle.

After the third can, Foggy speaks again. “I’m impressed anyone could force down that much Clubtails voluntarily.” He rests a hand on his hip, the movement disturbing the air currents. “Still want to punch things?”

He can still hear the breaking bottles, the crying, but he doesn’t need to punch them anymore. Not right now. His body is thrumming with heat and sugar and stale alcohol, enough to blunt the sharp-edged sounds. 

A miracle.

He realizes he hasn’t said anything. “Not at the moment.”

“I’m glad, on behalf of the structural integrity of our dorm room.” There’s a smile, laughter in Foggy’s voice, but something serious too.

The non-sequitur distracts him from the heaviness. He lifts a confused eyebrow.

“You don’t seem like the type to quit at pillows.” Foggy shrugs. “And I heard our wall giving you lip.” His pulse quickens, and he flushes, for no reason Matt can identify. Ordinarily he could, but alcohol is delaying his read by three, four seconds. Impressions crowd each other confusingly.

“True,” he says. “But usually I’d go with punching bags, not walls.”

Even saying it makes him queasy. He hasn’t been to Fogwell’s since Elektra. Every time he considers returning to the ring, his mind is engulfed with the painfully vivid taste of her skin. He _hates_ it. It was his father’s place with him before it was Elektra’s. She has no right to take it from him.

“A fighter!” Foggy sounds pleased. “How does that work? Do they just point you towards the bag and…” he mimes a jab, badly, “have at ‘em?”

He pastes on a smile. “Something like that.” Exhaustion wires heavily through his body.

Foggy waits just a moment for him to add more. “That’s cool,” he says eventually. “I did karate as a kid, but my sister, Candace, she’s the only one in the family who fights now. Taekwondo.” He smiles. “Personally, I think she just likes the high kicks.” 

“My father was a boxer,” he says, and freezes. He hadn’t intended to share anything personal with Foggy, had intended not to. It just slipped out. Foggy’s chatter brought it out, somehow. It feels _normal_ where nothing has for weeks.

“No wonder you like punching! My family works in cured meats, which explains, well.” He gestures at himself with a self-deprecating smile. “I’m pointing at all of me. If you’re a boxer too, Nelson’s Meats will help you make weight.” 

It’s not all that funny. It’s sad, really, and unjustified. But Foggy says it with such warmth that Matt throws back his head and laughs anyway. Borderline hysterically, it hurts against his ribs and shoulder blades, but it’s his first laughter in weeks.

“Thanks for the poison, Foggy. Fogs,” he says, once he’s regained his breath. “Can I call you Fogs?

“I don’t know, buddy.” He’s probably trying to sound severe, but laughter cracks through, lighting up the crevices in his voice. “We’re so many nicknames deep we're going to need a PASIV to dig you out.”

It’s a reference, he can tell. Not one he’s familiar with. He smiles anyway. “Thank you, Fogs,” he says showily, and Foggy snorts. ‘It’s good poison.”

“You are the _only_ person to think that,” he laughs. “I keep that… _substance…_ around to poison my enemies and debtors.”

“I suppose I qualify.” He chuckles again, marvelling that he can still make the sound. “How much do I owe you, Foggy? For the drinks, and the potatoes.”

Foggy takes a long, unsteady breath. He shakes his head, and his pulse spikes again. “I’m shaking my head,” he says. “I owe _you_ money for making you drink Clubtails. Someone brought it to a kegger last week and it was left untouched. I just culled it from the herd. As for the potatoes... obvious joke about small potatoes aside, they cost me nothing. They’re courtesy of Nelson’s Meats.” 

Through the alcohol, it takes him a moment to realise where he’s heard the name. “You brought them from your family’s store?” he says disbelievingly.

“Of course,” he says. “Who else could I trust to cheap out on the butter?”

A joke, meant to set him at ease. But Foggy’s wrong about them having cost him nothing. Multiple times a week, for a month, Foggy has left campus, gone to his _family_ , asked them to help a stranger. Asked them to make something custom, special. It’s an act of quiet generosity and compassion that stuns Matt. 

He fidgets. “I appreciate you going to the effort,” he says, finally.

Foggy leans forward and, for the first time that evening, pats him on the arm. “Just glad to see you on your feet again. Though not for much longer if you keep drinking _that_.” 

Foggy’s hand feels heavy and warm and anchoring.

  
  


* * *

He wakes with a head throb. All his nerves still burn, he still teeters on the edge of breaking. But it feels like Foggy’s left a trail along that razor’s edge to guide him back to humanity.

It’s one of the first good days he can remember. He gets out of bed and summons up enough marginal focus to meditate. Sounds and smells settle around him.

He opens his eyes. Chugs water and Tylenol, even though he hates the unsteady way it makes him feel. He doesn’t have any classes until the afternoon, but he feels better enough to finally start the Crim Law paper he’s had two extensions on already.

The thesis is outlined and the first paragraph written when Elise starts crying again. His hands go still on the laptop keys. He’s been waiting for this, the next time she cried. Had vowed to find out how to help her. 

More than once he’d considered knocking on her front door, catching her on the steps, asking what was wrong himself, but he’s a grown man, a single one. Onlookers would see a predator. _That_ they might stop to confront.

Still, he needs to help with a burning, surprising intensity. If it’s medical care, he can save up or fundraise. If it’s legal help, he can volunteer. Whatever it takes.

He shuts the laptop and concentrates. There they are, the same pained, wounded noises. And this time, a man’s voice. It says “shhhhh.” It chuckles.

He listens and listens and abruptly wishes he hadn’t. When he finally learns why the kind girl who likes Legos is making those noises, everything whites out. 

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of the day. A phone call to CPS, his voice shaking. The void where the sounds live. It splinters into anger that slices him deep, cuts a swath through his fear. The thunderous, heavy shards guide him to Fogwell’s for the first time since Elektra. His mind smells like ozone and he can’t breathe.

He punches the bag until his knuckles are tender. Not yet bruised.

He goes home and tries to write his paper. He can’t think of arguments. Can’t think of the gaps in the law. Can’t think of why this paper matters to him.

It has to matter. This all _has_ to matter. He types until the rest of his fingers hurt, types until the roar of the HVAC is all he hears. He slams his laptop shut this time. His whole body is shaking.

She’s going to be safe, he tells himself. Tries to focus on a single sound to drown it out. Foggy’s breathing, short and surprised. The authorities have been alerted. He believes in the system, that’s why he’s here in law school. Everything’s going to be okay.

It's not working. It’s too fresh, too harsh, too much, all parts of his brain skitter away from the idea of addressing it. He stands up and his chair shrieks against the wooden floor. “Got any more of that Clubtails?” he says.

His roommate leans back in his own chair. “I hope this isn’t going to become a habit.” He sounds exaggeratedly long-suffering, fond, and a little worried. “My reputation can’t take the hit of actually buying these.”

He gets up and hands Matt a can, though, and this time Matt makes sure not to breathe before gulping the whole thing down. It’s still so easy not to breathe.

He doesn’t want to sit. There’s a fight under his skin, an unshakable restlessness, he’s got to keep moving. Foggy, to his credit and kindness, doesn’t blink, stays on his feet with Matt, leans against the wall and wrinkles his nose over another canned screwdriver. 

Two drinks in, Matt’s finally able to form words.

“Last week, I saw a woman crying on the porch next door,” he says. “A little girl went up to check on her. No one else did.” He slumps, muscle memory keeping his center of gravity low. “I think that girl’s being abused, Foggy.”

“Shit, Matt.” The hand not holding a drink drops to his side, and the smell of cortisol flows off him. “Did you--”

“Yeah,” Matt says into the lip of the can. “I called CPS.”

Foggy sets the drink down. “I’ve got a friend on the force,” he says. His fingers twist together anxiously. “I could have him make a welfare check--”

Matt raises a quelling hand. “I’ve got no evidence,” he says, though it’s the only bright moment right now, knowing that he’d been right. Foggy would have stopped to help the woman. “It’s just a… a feeling. I recognized the way her father interacted with her.” He grits his teeth, and they clank metallically against the can. “My feelings haven’t been wrong before.” 

“Shit,” Foggy says again, concerned and fierce. “Shit, I’m sorry, buddy. You’ve had the worst week.”

He laughs, bitterly. “Better than that little girl’s.”

He’s on his fourth can now. He doesn’t like this feeling, bleary and several moments too slow. But it’s necessary. 

“I’m a planet,” he says. Hiccups. That didn’t come out the way he’d intended. He hopes Foggy understands anyway.

“What?”

Apparently not. “Orbiting problems from a distance.” he says, letting the words flow out without consideration. “Can’t affect anything. Everything burns like the sun.”

“I know I keep saying it, but I’m sorry, Matt.” His voice is soft. “But you can change a lot. _Have_ changed a lot. You called it in, Matt. If there’s any evidence, they’ll find it.” Truth. Heart-fluttering sincerity. “I wish to God our other classmates would pay enough attention to notice someone like that girl.”

All of the feelings and anger and hurt are rubbing together until he feels like raw, tenderized beef.

“Why are you being so nice to me, Foggy?” 

The world’s blurry. Stick hadn’t let him have more than a glass at a time-- it dulls the senses, he’d said. He wants this answer, at least, to stay in focus.

Foggy’s heart spasms. In surprise, in sympathy, Matt’s not sure. “Because I like you,” he says, simple and honest and warm. “And because no one knew what to do with me when I was in your shoes.”

Matt thinks he makes a noise, a question. He listens to Foggy’s eyelids. Open. Closed. Open. 

Foggy picks the can back up but doesn’t drink. “Last November I lost my grandpa,” he says, clear and open and utterly startling in his vulnerability. “It was sudden-- he’d been sick for a while, but we’d thought he was getting better. He wasn’t.”

Matt isn’t sure what to say. He’s lived through grief himself, but so long ago he’s forgotten the contours of it.

“It was weird, Matt. I didn’t cry or break down. I just… couldn’t eat. Threw up anything I tried to.” Matt feels a jab of understanding, sudden and low. “Canned cranberry sauce and white bread were my only calories for two solid weeks. It’s how I got the idea for the potatoes, and let me tell you, buddy, I am _so_ glad that worked.”

He smiles at Matt. He always does that, even though he knows Matt can’t see it.

“I wanted to pay it forward, I guess. Last November I was so confused and alone. I didn’t want that for you. I had to let you know someone was in your corner.” 

Matt feels it again, that razor-thin trail of breadcrumbs guiding him back to where he’s a person instead of this bundle of nerves and wiring. Foggy has been through so much worse than a breakup, but he’s treating Matt’s situation with the same compassion, with uncanny understanding.

“You’ll shake loose of this, Matt.” His voice is soft and warm. “You won’t be in orbit forever. It just doesn’t feel like it right now.” 

This is ordinarily where Matt would find words. Eloquence, an adequate thank-you, maybe even a speech. But words haven’t come right for weeks, he’s tapped out, exhausted. All he has is his intentions. 

He uses them. Walks to Foggy and hugs him, fiercely, flinging his arms over Foggy’s shoulders, gripping him a little too tight. Which he’s glad for, because the force of his intention nearly tips Foggy over, even though he’s propped against the wall.

Matt holds Foggy upright and in place, the way he’s having to hold himself. “Thank you, Foggy,” he murmurs into his neck. “It means a lot.”

Foggy pats him awkwardly. “Anytime, buddy.”

Foggy’s neck is soft, he thinks absently, pushing his nose into it. Smells of salt, of course, but something underneath. Homey, comfortable, cinnamon and vanilla wafting from an oven. He buries his face further in, alcohol robbing him of self-consciousness, and inhales deeper, and…

Foggy’s pulse is speeding.

Matt starts. Focuses in on the pulse and there’s a _cascade_ of new sensations. The muscles in Foggy’s arms have stiffened, are trembling. Heart is beating rapid and guilty. Blood creaks up to his face, floods downwards. A smell of musk along with cinnamon and salt.

Foggy _wants_ him, he realizes with a distant surprise. Still wants him. More than before, if Matt is hearing his body’s broadcast right.

Foggy shifts his hips sideways and away-- not so much that Matt would have noticed if he weren’t paying attention. Then scoots away another inch or so. He’s aware of how he’s reacting. He doesn’t want Matt to notice.

Emotions converge on him in a panicked, alcohol-soaked stampede. Betrayal and anger, that Foggy’s not immune to his state of vulnerability. Relief, that he’s good enough not to act on it. And sparkling, confused, twisted, _painful_ desire. He’s never considered Foggy as a possibility before, not even that first day, but these smells are new and intoxicating and his body is telling him to breathe them in like oxygen.

He’s frozen but his mind won’t stop pirouetting. There’s a filter, something that ought to be getting in the way, telling him this is a bad idea. But he feels nothing. A void. A need. 

Foggy’s still moving away from him and he has to stop it. Foggy can’t leave him right now. There’s no one left if Foggy leaves, no one at all.

He flattens his hands against Foggy’s shoulders. Lifts his nose off Foggy’s neck and bites it, experimentally, right where it meets the collarbone. Foggy’s breath catches in surprise, then goes ragged and thready. Heat rises to his skin, warming Matt. 

His tongue feels heavy and soft pressing into Foggy’s throat, and Foggy makes another incredible noise, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The smells in his nose sharpen; musk, salt, blood. They’re nice. This is nice.

And then there are hands on his biceps pushing him away, gently, firmly. “So many things we need to talk about first, buddy,” Foggy says shakily. 

“Foggy, I--” _need this, please_.

“I get it, Matt,” he says, a little harshness in his voice. Matt takes a stumbling step back. “I’ve been there. You’re having a shitty time, you want something to distract you. I’m convenient. I’m safe.” He bites out the word, but he doesn’t sound angry, exactly. “I know you’re not looking for anything serious.” He sounds resigned. Like this is familiar. 

Matt’s not sure if he wants anything serious. He’s not sure about _anything_ he wants.

Foggy sighs. “But you’re _drunk_ , Matt. You’re emotionally compromised and you’re drunk. I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose. He seems tired, and he’s physically turned away from Matt. Not enough to seem like a full rejection, but at a right angle and stiff, like pages of a new Braille text. Matt feels a cold emptiness in the space his body warmth should be. 

“If you still need a forget-my-ex hookup in the morning, I’ll help you out.” Foggy runs a hand through his hair and sighs, a little wistful. “God knows this is the first thing I’ve seen you interested in doing for days. Just let me know.”

“S-sure, Fogs,” he stammers. 

Foggy pats his back and steps away. “I’m here for you, dude.” He smiles, calmly, nothing in his demeanor expressing the conflicted pulp that adrenaline and intense desire have made of his control. He tilts his head to his drink and takes another sip. Narrows his facial muscles into a wince.

Matt doesn’t deserve a friend like this.

Every nerve fiber, every cell in Matt’s body, wants one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no feelings about Clubtails but one person on Reddit said "I bought the long island and the screwdriver one night at the gas station and immediately regretted it when I got home and tried them," another said "I will say the one redeeming quality is that I've had three... and I am absolutely obliterated, they do work quickly," and I felt like there couldn't be a better drink for this story


	3. Foggy

The next day, he wakes up and his head feels like it’s cracking open, a bitter jackknife that shreds through his composure. His mouth tastes of sick. He has little memory of the night before. And CPS is knocking on Elise’s door. 

It opens. He listens. The little girl’s mother smiles at them, shows them around, offers them tea. They decline. And then she denies every part of the truth, every detail that could keep Elise safe. That, they don’t decline.

He listens that evening as the man punishes her for his failures.

Foggy has been here for him with his potatoes and his disgusting alcohol. Elise was there for the woman on the porch. No one is there for Elise.

When he’s through hurting her, the man leaves the house for a walk. He’s _whistling._

Before Matt has consciously made a decision, he’s torn the hem off an old tee shirt and tied it around his eyes. He’s not going to let someone _whistle_ , not after such senseless damage, such irrevocable destruction of kindness. He’s not going to let the world walk past her. He’s going to make sure that someone’s in her corner, that someone can stop her from suffering alone.

Rage blazes through his senses. The sounds the man makes under his fists feel like the first peace he’s had since Roscoe Sweeney. God. Elektra would have loved him like this. 

This time, he doesn’t make it all the way to the dorm room, let alone the sink. His knuckles are bruised and bloody. But he can’t regret it when he hears Elise the next morning, crying joy and relief and gratitude.

* * *

He’s still trying to brush the taste out of his mouth when Foggy speaks.

“When I said let me know, I should have clarified.” Foggy’s tone is easy, comfortable, but Matt can hear him shifting from foot to foot. “I meant let me know either way.”

“I’m sorry, Fogs. I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he says on autopilot. Spits toothpaste and the residue of acid into the sink. He should know what Foggy’s talking about, but he only knows the taste of vomit and the memory of crunching blood beneath his hands.

“I bet.”

The silence stretches like sinew. “I take it this awkward silence means you’ve changed your mind?” Foggy prods. “Drunken bad idea?”  
  


Matt doesn’t know what to say. The memories are there, he thinks, but they’re _stuck_. He shrugs helplessly instead.

Foggy’s heart speeds into a rhythm of dismay. “Were you really so drunk that you don’t even remember?” 

“Maybe?”

Another lip-grind. “Fuck. This is embarrassing.” He smooths his palm over his forehead. “Okay, Matt, the other night you made like you wanted a get-over-your-ex-by-getting-under-someone-else special. From me.”

Matt’s face does something, twitches maybe.

“Right, got it. No need to bring it up again.” Humiliation is rising to Foggy’s cheeks, pouring through his bloodstream, it’s not necessary and Matt has to stop it.

“That was for the wording, Foggy, not the concept.” Finally, the memories are trickling back in. Planets. CPS. Oh. Biting Foggy’s neck, a strong, powerful beacon of sensation in his mind.

“Right.” Foggy’s tone shifts. Caution. Something else. “Do you like the concept, then?” Hope, he realizes. That’s what the something else is.

He freezes. Entire body and mind and spirit drawing a blank. Returning him to the void. The question has a right and a wrong answer. Answering isn’t safe. Not answering isn’t safe. 

_Tell me all the filthy details, Matthew_ , Elektra whispers in his ear. He’s curling in on himself.

“Whoa whoa whoa.” There are arms around him, steadying him. He hadn’t realized he was shaking. “It’s OK, Matt. It’s OK. You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry.” Foggy sounds frustrated with himself. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No,” Matt says, because that’s not what he wants at all. Or he thinks it’s not. He’s still far from the place where he entirely knows. “It wasn’t the topic,” he says. “It was the… the approach.”

“How so?” Foggy’s voice is quiet, coaxing.

He can’t find the words to describe what’s happening. The frustrating constant raw exposed nerves, the failure of his eloquence at the times it matters. “It was... It felt like you wanted a specific answer.” 

“Shit, Matt.” He withdraws a hand and presses it to his mouth, voice and bloodstream swimming with genuine dismay. “I did not intend that _at all_.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s fine.” The void is still there, an impression just outside of consciousness, but it’s not Foggy’s fault.

“No,” Foggy says firmly, “It’s not. You’re in a bad place. I’m the one who needs to respect that and be careful.” He sighs. “Thanks for letting me know.” 

He tilts his head up and presses his nails into the palm of his hand. “How do you feel about this conversation, buddy?” Deliberate, neutral language, an adjustment for Matt already. “Would you like to continue it or drop it? I don’t mind either way.”

It’s a half-truth. Foggy does have an agenda here, and he doesn’t want Matt to know about it. Matt stings and aches and

No, no, that’s not right. Foggy doesn’t want his agenda to _affect_ Matt. He wants Matt to have space, the space he’d literally just ineffectually asked for.

Matt exhales. He should drop the conversation, it’s dangerous and uncomfortable and he’s obviously not in the right place to react appropriately. But he vividly remembers his hunger for the taste of Foggy’s neck. He’s never been good at saying no to what he wants. “Continue it. Please.”

Foggy’s heartbeat. It picks up, a little blood rushes to his face. He’s gratified, or maybe embarrassed. “All right. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.” Any open agenda is welcome right now.

“Let’s make a system,” Foggy says. “One word for if you feel like you can’t answer questions. Another word if you’re comfortable answering questions truthfully, even awkward ones. Picking either is fine, you can always change your mind, and no judgments about whatever you choose to say.”

Truth, all of it. Foggy wants him, but in this, he just wants to help Matt. It feels… safe. Protective. 

“Okay,” he says again. Their conversation two nights ago tickles in his memory. “Mercury for no questions,” he says, because Mercury’s the planet closest to the sun, the scorching light of Elektra’s demands. “And…” The furthest planet. “Neptune for yes.”

“I like it. Great.” There’s a smile in his voice, a gentleness. “Which planet are you on right now, Matt?”

He closes his eyes. Something about the question settles him. ‘Mercury’ and ‘Neptune’ have no moral value. They exist as equally valid entities. Simple. No judgment, Foggy said.

At confession, each of his actions, each of his secrets is measured, its weight judged, the appropriate penance meted out to take it off the scales. Here he feels suspended at the fulcrum, any answer he gives weightless. 

The answer is obvious. “Neptune,” he says.

“If that changes, you let me know, okay?” Matt nods, but it’s a small movement, washed away in the calm that’s flooding him, the unexpected narrowing of his sensory focus. “You with me, Matt?”

He nods again, making sure the movement is larger this time. “Yeah, Fogs. I will.”

“All right.” He settles back, clearly thinking hard. “Okay. First question, and it might make all the others unnecessary.” He tugs at his collar uncomfortably, as though to loosen an invisible tie. Blocking behavior. He’s expecting a negative response but forging ahead. “When you made a pass at me the other night, I said I’d consider it if you were interested sober. That offer is still open. How do you feel about it?”

“Confused,” he says, honestly. He’s not sure why Foggy’s interested enough to have brought it up again. He hasn’t been particularly charming or clever the last few months-- he’s been a burden on Foggy. The opposite of attractive. It’s possible Foggy’s just dotting 'i's and crossing 't's, making sure Matt has everything he wanted from their encounter. He’s generous enough, thoughtful enough for that to be the case.

But Matt doubts it. He remembers the smells, the blood flow, the noises Foggy made under his tongue. He wants to taste them again. 

He realizes he’s going bright and heated. “Confused but… but positive, I think,” he stammers. It’s important for Foggy to know that he’s not rejecting the idea.

“You think?” Foggy says skeptically.

“I don’t know.” He does know he wants Foggy: he has years of experience recognizing his body’s reactions. But they’ve come on with a suddenness, an urgency, he knows he should find concerning. “You’re right. I’m not exactly in the best shape, and there’s a lot to think about.” 

“Such as?”

“For one, I’ve never been involved with a man.” By no means the thing that should concern him most, but the easiest to articulate.

“That’s fine. Have you ever _wanted_ a man before?”

He has to think about it. There had been moments of heat, flashes of elevated pulses, in crowds, in parties. Nothing he’s sure was his. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, that?” Foggy sighs. “Chuck it firmly in the bad idea category. The last thing you need right now is figuring out a sexuality crisis on top of your other shit. Forget I said anything.” He means it-- his heartbeat is steady-- but he’s sad, too. 

Matt feels a flare of raw, painful annoyance. “Don’t oversimplify,” he snaps. “It’s not a crisis if I’m sure I wanted you. I don’t have many memories of that night, but the ones I do have are _very_ clear on that point, Foggy.”

Foggy promised Neptune meant no judgments. ‘Bad idea’ is a judgment, Foggy weighing his answers and offering advice. And he knows it’s well-meant and probably wise. He’s not in the right mental state to judge… anything, really. But he’s even less in the right mental state to let someone judge for him.

In the stillness, he hears Foggy swallow, a thick, wet sound. “That…. Wow, okay, flattering.” He laughs nervously. “Then. Is there anything else you’re worried about? Anything else you want to discuss?”

He should be worried about a lot of things. Their friendship. His religion. Why Foggy is willing to go along with this. But all he’s thinking about now is the welcome respite that night had been from the misery of the last few months.

“No,” he says.

“Then, uh, I’m all out of objections,” Foggy says. “Huh. I expected this to be a lot more complicated.” His pulse accelerates. “All right. If you feel like it’s something that would help, I’m down. Up to you.” The tone is casual, too casual.

Matt feels another irrational, painful flare, this time of anger and hurt. That wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic endorsement. It was an acquiescence. Maybe he’d misjudged Foggy’s noises the other night after all. “If this is just a pity fuck,” he begins.

Foggy flinches as though Matt’s hit him. “That’s not…Matt.” He drags both hands through his hair and, seeming to decide something, sets his shoulders back. “Fuck it. You do know you’re smokin’, right? You do remember how I drooled all over you when I met you? It was pretty embarrassing, buddy. I was pretty sure that got through.”

“It did,” he says reluctantly. “But that doesn’t mean that’s your motivation now.”

Foggy exhales, a long, shaky press of air. “How would you feel if I touched you right now?” His voice is slow and still; his heart has kicked up. He’s restraining himself, and not easily.

Matt doesn’t trust his own voice. He nods, mutely.

The warmth of Foggy’s body moves closer. A hand brushes his hair back, equally slowly, and the other cups his chin. “I feel like a creep saying this,” he says, voice husky and a little dry. “I know you’re not in a good place, and the last thing I want is to take advantage of it. But please trust me when I say if you want my help, it would be very, _very_ much a win-win.” His voice almost drops out on the last words.

The hum of the fight is still buzzing under his skin. “I…” 

He’s done. He'll throw the fight. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Elektra had been so many of his firsts. He just wants another one. 

And Foggy’s right. He’s safe. Uncomplicated. _Clear._ Everything’s been so beautifully clear tonight, and he’s felt murky and dim since Elektra left him. Maybe since he started dating her. Maybe since the day they met.

He inhales the scent of Foggy’s hands. Still lavender hand soap and warmth, familiar, but somehow new and exciting. “Okay,” he says. 

He leans his cheek into the hand cupping his chin. Foggy’s breath catches. Matt’s breath doesn’t, quite, but it’s shallow, and he feels impossibly warm. He presses his lips into the edge of Foggy’s palm. “Is, uh, now a good time?”

“Seriously?” Foggy’s voice jumps in slightly overloud surprise. It jars Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Yesterday was…” He swallows. “I could really use a win-win right now, Foggy. Please.”

Foggy laughs again, high and disbelieving. “Uh. Yeah, sure, now’s good, I guess. I’ve got no plans,” he says. His heart stutters. “Would you like me to get the door, Matt?”

He’s giving him one last chance for an out. One last chance to change his mind. It chafes more irritation into Matt’s raw places. He’s made his choice.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’ll get it.” He walks to the door and slides the bar lock into place.

When he turns back around, Foggy’s right there in front of him, a wall of warmth between him and the rest of the room. Slowly, he backs Matt up until all he can feel is the chill of the door through his shirt, the warmth of Foggy holding him in place. Matt knows he isn’t really caught, can think of four or five ways to twist free, but he doesn’t _want_ to move. 

“Just….let me know if you don’t like something, okay?” Foggy breathes against Matt’s mouth. “I know this is all new to you.”

“Okay,” he says, and Foggy leans in the last few millimeters.

His lips are soft, and there’s something thoughtful in the way he kisses, something considered. He traces his tongue along the sensitive skin just inside of Matt’s mouth, brushes against just Matt’s lower lip, dry and hot and tingling. Then presses more firmly, pulls the lip into his mouth, a delicate scraping of teeth and Matt loses the thread, loses everything around himself. He hears himself make a harsh, needy noise.

Foggy hums with contentedness and repeats the soft bite, then kisses his way to the corner of his mouth and licks into it. Matt makes the noise again and arches up against Foggy, who chuckles against his lips. 

“You’re really helping out my ego here, Matt,” he says.

“You-- you deserve it. _Fuck_ ,” he says as Foggy does something else with suction and scraping. He feels like he’s going to collapse against the door.

Kissing Elektra had been harsh and exhilarating, split lips and bruising teeth. Nothing like this painful, slow, intimate torture.

Foggy skims his hands under the shirt and Matt hisses as the cold metal of the bar lock imprints directly into his skin. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, and tugs him away from the door. “How’s this, buddy?”

“Good,” he says breathlessly. “Very good.”

“I'm glad,” he says, and slides his hands back under the hem, hiking it up a few chilly inches. He plants a kiss on the exposed skin, feather-light and warm, and Matt shivers. Hot, wet kisses trail up Matt’s side and hands flatten steady against the bottom of his ribcage. “Okay if this comes all the way off?”

Matt nods, and Foggy planes his hands slowly the rest of the way up, along his ribs, along his arms, until he’s at the end of Matt’s fingertips and Matt is aching. He tosses the shirt to the floor.

Then he hesitates. “Should I get mine as--”

Matt tugs his shirt upwards, so roughly that it tears along the seam. It catches on Foggy’s elbows, folds awkwardly over his face. “Sorry,” he says. He’s only half sorry. 

“Impatient,” Foggy laughs, shrugging the shirt the rest of the way off. “And again, really flattering, Matt.” His arms settle around Matt’s waist and he draws their torsos together. It feels different. Elektra’s skin is smooth and soft everywhere it isn’t callused, and almost scaldingly hot to the touch. Foggy’s skin is a little rougher everywhere, but softer, somehow. Warm, but not as scalding as Elektra.

Matt feels queasy and uneven.

“Okay there?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, a little louder than he intends, and lunges forward into another kiss. This one moves faster than the first, open mouths and a clash of tongues and somehow not right or satisfying.

Foggy breaks free. “We can stop if you need--”

Frustration surges and he pinches Foggy’s nipple, twists, before he can really think about what he’s doing. Before he can realize it’s wrong, here, a movement for Elektra’s body. Foggy inhales anyway and makes a guttural moan that makes Matt want to do it again, want to drag hot lines and bruised circles into his skin and pin him to the bed and it’s wrong, it isn’t good, he _can’t_.

He drops his hand from Foggy’s chest. He can feel it shaking.

“Stop doing that,” Matt says. “Stop acting like I’m going to change my mind, or break if you touch me wrong. I’m not made of glass.” 

Foggy threads his fingers through Matt’s hair, a soothing gesture. “That’s not what this is about, Matt,” he says. “Promise. I just know post-breakup sex can be really weird. Lots of memories. I’ve, uh.” He ducks his head self-consciously. “Let’s just say this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

“Oh.” It ought to soothe the sting of the anger, but it doesn’t, it’s just _there_ , building and caustic and exposed. He leans in and kisses Foggy again, a firm press of lips. “Thanks for your consideration. I want to keep going.” He has to banish the sense memories, forget the things he shouldn’t want. 

He dips his hand below Foggy’s waistband, to the edge of his boxers. “Can I--”

“Yes, Matt, God yes.”

_Blasphemous_ , he wants to joke, but that word is raw in his mouth too. Instead he unbuttons the jeans and slides them to Foggy’s ankles. His boxers are an unusually soft cotton blend, he almost asks where Foggy got them. The brand he wears has been discontinued and he doesn’t know where to buy new ones. But he’s generated enough awkward interruptions for now. 

Foggy’s fully hard, straining, and there’s a wet spot forming at the front of his boxers. It’s Matt’s turn to feel flattered and a little smug. If this were a crisis, probably this would be the moment it hits him. But all he feels is heat and need.

He traps Foggy’s leg between his with a jolt of friction and pressure, curves one hand intently behind his lower back. Foggy’s breath hitches again as Matt slips the other into Foggy’s boxers. His raw, bruised knuckles catch on the fabric and he stifles a hiss.

“Matt?” Apparently not well enough.

“It’s nothing,” he says forcefully. “Hit the punching bag too hard and it bruised. That’s all.” He wraps his hand around Foggy and squeezes for emphasis.

He makes that sobbing gasp Matt was so desperate to hear again. “Fuck, yes, _Matt._ ” He thrusts forward into Matt’s hand. Just a little, involuntarily, he’s trying to keep himself still and let Matt choose the pace and his thighs are _straining_ with it. It’s intoxicating.

Matt focuses. Really focuses, intently, on Foggy’s reactions, focuses for the first time in weeks. His breathing. His noises. The flow of his blood. Everything else quiets around him and he nearly sobs with relief.

His first stroke is too gentle. A reflection of his own sensitivity. The second is better, and the third is just right, a rough, harsh grasp Matt’s honestly surprised Foggy can take. But all of his signals light up for Matt and he moans so loudly that he expects the neighbors to complain. Maybe they already are, but he can’t _hear_ them right now.

It’s too rough to do much this way. No matter how hard Foggy likes it, this is going to chafe. 

“Do you have anything?” he says, without removing his hand from Foggy’s boxers. “Lotion?”

“Lube’s in the second desk drawer from the top.” Matt tilts his head up at him and raises an eyebrow. “Where else am I supposed to keep it?”

“The dresser.”

“It’d get all over my clothes, Matt. I _like_ my clothes.” He removes Matt’s hand from his underwear with an astonishing, thrilling reluctance. “Give me just a second. It’ll be faster since I know where it is, and believe me, I am _incentivized_ to speed right now.”

His heart beats truth, and somehow, it’s Matt’s favorite moment of the night. Faster for someone who knows where the bottle is, not faster for someone sighted. Sincerely how Foggy perceives it.

It draws him towards Foggy as he rummages in the desk. Makes a triumphant noise. Waves a short, round bottle. “Got it--”

Matt wraps one arm around his ribcage and presses Foggy into the edge of the desk with his hips. Foggy gasps and _grinds_ back against Matt, an obscene promise Matt’s not sure he should accept. “Good,” he murmurs into the nape of Foggy’s neck. “Hand it to me, will you?” 

“Jesus, you’re going to _kill_ me, Matt,” he says, voice breathless and heartbeat absolutely wild. He reaches back blindly with the bottle. His hands are shaking and Matt hasn’t felt this good, this in control, in weeks.

Matt pops the cap one-handed, then reconsiders. This is going to be tricky standing. “Bed?”

“Probably a good idea,” Foggy says faintly. “Not sure I can stand up much longer.” 

They almost race there. The bed’s too small, its frame creaks worryingly, but Foggy makes efficient use of space, clambering over Matt’s knees to straddle him. Then everything’s a blur, bodies pressing and hips moving together and a filthy twist of tongues and heat. 

It takes him embarrassingly long to remember why they moved to the bed. He breaks the kiss and wets his shaking palm with lube, cold and slippery. Foggy’s hand splays against the front of Matt’s jeans. “Matt, _please,_ can I?”

Matt’s already bucking into it with an urgency he’s almost ashamed of. “Do it,” he says.

Foggy palms him through the jeans, a little too rough. When he hisses his encouragement, Foggy presses the flat of his palm against his stomach, gentle and deliberate, then slips it underneath the waistband. Circles it around his cock carefully.

Elektra would have had his pants all the way off by now, his boxers. She wouldn’t have cared whether he chafed.

Fuck Elektra and what she would have wanted. Fuck everything but what’s happening right now. He tugs Foggy’s boxers down with one hand and closes the lubricated hand around his cock. Slides it once, twice, and begins the punishing rhythm and pressure that Foggy had responded to earlier. 

“Fuck, Matt, _fuck_.” Foggy’s almost sobbing. “How are you this unfairly good at this.” The muscles of his thighs give out and he collapses back onto his heels. The hand that had wrapped around Matt goes slack.

“Trade secret,” he smiles, and keeps stroking.

It’s as effective as he knew it would be, Foggy helpless under his hands, cresting at a sure and speedy pace he’s willing to bet Foggy didn’t expect. He feels obscurely vindicated, molding Foggy’s reactions into a facsimile of his own need.

“Matt, I’m gonna… I gotta…” 

“Good,” he says, voice raspy. “I want you to.”

Foggy comes, body pressing up into emptiness, seeking contact. His hand convulses around Matt’s cock, a moment of too-intense pain mixed with pleasure. Matt lets his awareness of Foggy’s reactions fade until all that’s left is the faint, steaming heat of his body and the way his lips have cooled.

Foggy breathes in heavily, trembling against the bedsheets. “Grab me a tissue, please, Matt?” he says, voice sleepy and thick. “Need a minute. Can’t feel my bones. Can’t feel my brain.”

Matt leans over to the nightstand and tosses him a tissue. He’s still hard, achingly so, and he feels cold.

“Mmgh, thank you.” Foggy wipes at his stomach, wads it up neatly and tosses it into the trash next to the bed, then lies there, still. “Just one more minute,” he says to the ceiling. “Promise I’m not done with you yet.”

Truth. Oh. An unexpected warmth flashes through him, bracing him against the chill and the wait.

A few more moments pass. Then Foggy hoists himself up on his elbows. "Okay, caught my breath." He maneuvers around Matt and grasps at his shoulders, pushes him slow against the mattress. His lips against Matt’s brush light and cool.

His movements are slower, now, almost sleepy, but they’ve returned to that deliberate focus from earlier. He mouths and nips his way down Matt’s neck, his torso, until he’s starting to squirm again and the heat is returning to his body. He flicks his tongue against Matt’s nipple, which doesn’t do much for him, and licks a hot stripe across his stomach that very much does. He feels Foggy grin at his bitten-off noise and suck an aching bite into the hollow above his groin. 

There, he hesitates. “You, uh, been tested recently? No judgment either way, it just changes what I’m willing to do here.”

A flash of Fogwell’s, shortly before the breakup. His fist clenches. “Yes,” he says curtly. “Everything negative, no partners since.”

“Great. Me too. Comfortable trusting my word on that? I can dig up the last results if you need.”

“I trust you, Foggy.” 

“Thanks, Matt.” He sounds genuinely touched. “That means a lot to me. I trust you too.” He nuzzles downward into the hair. “In that case, how would you feel about me going down on you? Assuming that’s not too gay.” His tone is teasing, and abruptly, Matt’s sick of it.

“I’ve had a blowjob before, Fogs. Again, not made of glass.” he says.

His pulse goes choppy at the harshness in Matt’s voice, but he recovers quickly. Almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, but you haven’t had a _Nelson_ blowjob,” he counters. “Very different beast.” He bites just below the hipbone, harder, almost bruising, and Matt shudders as he draws patterns on the sensitized skin with his tongue. “You’ve kissed me,” Foggy says roughly. “Felt what I can do. You’ve got to be curious how well I can take you apart with this mouth.”

He is, he _very_ is, especially with the cockiness in his tone and the steady self-assuredness of his heartbeat. His hips twitch up and Foggy grins against his stomach again. “Go ahead,” Matt says, completely failing at casual. “Give it a try.” 

“Oh, I can do much better than that. But thanks for the go-ahead.” He plants both hands firmly on Matt’s hips, curving around his hipbones, and Matt sucks in a breath. 

Foggy trails teasing kisses along his pubic hair, bites light and lingering at his inner thigh. And then his mouth wraps around Matt’s cock and hollows out, and Matt can’t do anything but clutch at the bed.

Elektra had done this, and he’d enjoyed it. It had felt intimate. Beautiful, even, sharing their most vulnerable parts, trusting they’d be safe with one another. But it had been nothing like this. Foggy’s some kind of _prodigy._

He wants to describe it, he’s trying so badly to find words, but everything is formless pleasure and the clever slick of muscle and hands wrapped around the base of his cock, keeping the angle right. One hand dips lower to cup him, kneads gently.

Foggy flicks his tongue against the underside of the tip, and it’s too much, too intense. Matt flinches away from it, and he feels Foggy nod and adjust. The suction increases, and Foggy moves his head in a long, slow circle that has Matt panting and thrusting at the sky.

Foggy takes him deeper and wetter and Matt feels it building in him with the same suddenness and urgency that drove him to seek this. “Foggy, I’m,” he manages, and Foggy makes a hum of assent. Matt’s orgasm hits, everything in him spilling white and hot and ecstatic into Foggy’s mouth.

Foggy swallows, hands still pressed soothingly into the hollows of his hipbones. He lingers there, warm and familiar, longer than seems strictly necessary, but Matt likes it. It’s comforting. Then he draws off him in a smooth, slow, practiced motion.

The smile on Foggy’s face is lopsided and a lot smug. “What did I tell you? Different beast?”

“Maybe an entirely new species,” he says dazedly. Foggy might actually have spoiled him for anyone else’s mouth forever.

“One ex told me it was practically a religious experience,” Foggy says, as if he’s reading Matt’s thoughts, and leans in to peck him on the lips again. “You’re the Catholic. You tell me.”

“Hate to disagree with your ex,” he says, mouth quirking into a half-smile. “But if confession were that much fun, we’d have a lot more Catholics.”

It startles a laugh out of him. “Oh, you’re _good_ , Matt. I like you.”

_I like you,_ Elektra laughs against his collarbone. He shakes his head and it dissipates like smoke, leaving behind a cloying, heavy residue.

A sweat-damp hand brushes his shoulder. “Everything okay?” Foggy says, concern sweetening his voice.

Matt shakes his head again and settles back against the pillow. “Memories,” he says tiredly. “That’s all.”

Foggy nods. He rolls onto his side and scoots up soft against Matt, draping a warm arm across his waist. It should be ridiculous, the back half of his body is falling off the bed, but it’s cozy and intimate. 

“Did this help with those memories, Matt?” he says softly. “All joking aside, that’s the most important part to me.”

Matt considers it. He does feel better, better than he’s felt in weeks. He feels settled into his skin, aftershocks of pleasure sparking through him, and they don’t belong to Elektra. He doesn’t belong to Elektra. He can have this without spending his life with someone. His skin can be his own.

It does feel sacred.

“It helped,” he says. “It really did. Thank you, Foggy.”

But.

But the fight is still burning under his skin.

He’s been holding back this whole time. Being gentle, trying not to hurt Foggy. He’d never had to hold back with Elektra, and he _misses_ it, how she wanted and encouraged his shameful sharp edges. 

The Murdock boys have got the Devil in them. 

“I’m glad, Matt.” Foggy threads a sleepy hand through his hair, oblivious to the turn of his thoughts. “And I had a fantastic time too. Just let me know whether you’re up for a repeat performance sometime.” It’s the same casual inflection as the other night, the same nonchalant, noncommittal, almost joking invitation. Which means Foggy really wants that repeat performance.

It’s tempting. Even with everything that’s wrong with Matt, Foggy did make him feel better. Foggy had been attentive, _skilled_ in ways Matt’s going to dream about for a long time, possibly forever. Foggy’s gratifyingly interested. He _likes_ Foggy, really _likes_ him, more than he’s liked anyone for a long, long time.

But Foggy’s _too_ interested. Matt likes Foggy. Foggy likes him better. He has to cut this off before he destroys the only relationship keeping him sane.

“Sure,” he says halfheartedly. Foggy must be looking at him, must see what he means, because his pulse goes hot and disappointed.

“Cool,” he says. “Got it.” 

Tonight was what nice people, kind people like Foggy want. Even without Elektra, Matt will never be that good.


	4. Needs

“What made you want to go into law?”

Matt tries to keep his wince internal. It’s so _clumsy_ of him. Every 2L student rolls their eyes at the question, and every 1L student considers answering it ‘I wish I hadn’t.’ But he needs to know more about Foggy.

Matt has to do something to reward the kindness Foggy’s shown, the confusing loyalty. He _has_ to _._ He owes him a debt of sanity and centering he can never repay-- in this case, literally. Foggy refuses any money for the potatoes or the drinks.

But when he'd considered what to gift Foggy back, it became embarrassingly clear he didn’t know his roommate at all. No favorite TV shows, authors, movies. If Foggy had hobbies, they weren’t obvious from the smells or shapes of his belongings. And Matt wasn’t going to enable the cheese puffs. The dust got everywhere and the room smelled like foot sweat for weeks.

So now he’s standing by the edge of Foggy’s bed, asking icebreaker questions as the world’s most awkward reconnaissance.

At least Foggy’s heartbeat is genuinely happy at the question. “I wanna be a trial lawyer,” he says, stretching backwards against the pillow. “Make the big bucks.”

Truth. But such a glib, superficial response feels dissonant to Matt. The urge to pick it apart is irresistible. “And argue the important cases?” Matt says. “The ones that can change precedent, reshape the arc of justice?”

Foggy swats at him playfully. “Spoken like the man with life goals to overturn Oliphant vs. Suquamish Indian Tribe.”

It _does_ need to be overturned. It should be taught alongside Plessy vs. Ferguson.

Three months ago, he’d led the debate team on the topic of tribal sovereignty, and much of his argument centered around that case, one of the worst modern Supreme Court rulings. He’d talked about how it left the most vulnerable without legal recourse and left tribal criminal justice systems in tatters. How the VAWA Reauthorization of 2013 had plugged some of the gaps, but not enough.

Still, Foggy remembering that from months ago leaves him off-balance. He shifts so he’s facing Foggy more directly. “You saw that?”

“Pretty sure the whole school saw it, buddy. You’ve got kind of a fanclub.” His face heats slightly, heart pulses a little faster. Embarrassment, attraction, Matt’s actually not sure, but it’s doing something funny to his own chest. “How about you?” Foggy continues. “Going for trial lawyer too? With that silver tongue of yours, you could charm the pants off any jury.” 

Foggy’s face goes from heated to explosively hot. The Hindenburg disaster. He shields his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “Please just kill me now.”

Matt lifts a hand. “It’s okay, Foggy.” These conversations are uncomfortable and awkward because of his decisions, not Foggy’s. It’s his responsibility to set Foggy at ease. “Considering what’s happened between us, I expect things to come out strangely sometimes. I won’t hold it against you.” 

The joke he’s going to make is washed aside by disorienting memory. Foggy’s warm solidity against him, the chill of the door at his back. _Things will come out strangely sometimes,_ he tells himself firmly, and braces his lungs against the feeling.

“Great,” Foggy continues, relieved and thankfully unaware of what's going on in Matt’s head. “ ‘Cause I’d rather not have a repeat of our first meeting. Took a personal crisis just to get you to talk to me again after that.”

“It would take a lot to get me to stop, now.” Reminiscence still flickers at the edges of his mind. “You’ve done so much for me. Least I could do is forgive a few, ah…” a grin is expected here, even if it sits unnaturally on his face, “Slips of the tongue.”

Foggy laughs, loud and sincere, and Matt feels some of the tension drop from his shoulders. He’s doing it. He’s setting him at ease.

“To answer your question, yes, trial lawyer, I hope.” Matt brushes his fingertips against Foggy’s comforter, texture uneven but surprisingly soft. “I’d like to go into criminal defense. Help the innocent get the justice they deserve. Maybe serve as a public defender.”

“And get blackballed from the rest of the legal field for a lifetime?”

They bicker for the rest of the afternoon, well-meant and refreshing. It untwists some of the wiring in Matt’s mind. It’s shorting out less now, a week after that night with Foggy, but he’s still not right, and focusing his mind on conversation is better than letting it drift. 

But focused or not, he’s not getting anything out of Foggy. Or rather, he’s getting opinions, strong ones, on anything from Garfield to Renaissance Festivals, but nothing on what Foggy _wants_.

Matt knows it’s strange, how much he’s fixated on this. How it’s gone from something he’d like to offer to something vital. But Foggy’s a good person, and Matt should know how to be kind to him. _Someone_ should know, and no one he’s spoken to does.

“Foggy,” he says. “What planet are you on?”

“Hmmm? Oh!” Foggy presses himself up to seated. He’s been contented this whole conversation, but now he sounds alert, and happy enough to glow to Matt’s senses. “You still want to use that. I’m so glad it’s helpful to you, dude.” He shakes his head. “Uh, sorry. Neptune.”

Matt sits on the bed next to him, ignoring the way Foggy’s heartbeat spikes. “I want to get you a gift for all your help.”

“Man, I told you, you don’t need to--”

“It’s important to me.” He tilts his head upwards, tries to put his thoughts into words that Foggy will agree with. “You helped me immeasurably, Foggy. Whatever you’re worried about-- being a burden, taking my resources-- I’ve already done to you. I hate that you won’t let me return the favor. _Is_ there anything you want?” he says, a little desperately. “Anything you need my help with?” 

Foggy flushes a few degrees at _anything you want_ , which Matt had expected. The twisted wiring in him sparks gratification, but it fades quickly. 

“You're really not going to be okay without an answer, huh,” he says thoughtfully.

“No.”

Foggy taps at his lip. “I’m a pretty simple dude. Most of the things I want, I already have.” He shrugs helplessly. “I guess you could pick me up some Taco Bell sometime?”

Taco Bell, he thinks with dawning relief. It’s laughable, that this is the only thing he can think of. And he’s sure Foggy picked it because it’s cheap and easy, but now he knows _something_. He can work with that.

He exhales. “I appreciate it, Foggy.”

* * *

So he begins a routine: one afternoon a week, he takes the subway to Taco Bell and buys whatever he doesn’t recognize on the menu, so long as it’s not coated with Dorito powder. He avoids the smell as best he can as he brings it back, and he sets it down on Foggy’s desk. And he gloats, a little, at the happy noises Foggy makes eating it.

After three weeks and the face Matt makes taste-testing the Sriracha Quesarito, Foggy stops trying to make him eat Taco Bell with him. “Hey Matt.” He scoots his chair sideways away from his desk, so that he’s facing Matt instead of the food. “What planet are you on?”

He seems so _delighted_ every time they use it in conversation, “Neptune,” Matt says.

Foggy grabs a tissue from the corner of his desk. “Why do you keep buying these if you don’t even like them?” He wipes his mouth. “You said you wanted to get me a gift, not a habit.”

It’s a frivolous use of a promise Matt takes seriously, but he doesn’t mind. He likes that Foggy gives him the choice of whether to share the liquid truths. Elektra made him drown in them. 

“It’s fun,” Matt grins. “I like to experience your reactions.” If he hadn’t had his senses, he wouldn’t have even registered the response: a deep, warm flush of desire, chased by a cooler shot of disappointment. 

“Cool,” says Foggy, drawing the syllable out. “Definitely can’t think of anything to say that isn’t awkward. Good job, buddy.”

Disappointment visits them in choppy intervals. A raised heart rate when Matt leans over to get a drink, when his shirt rides up. None of it should be perceptible. None of it something Matt can fault. Foggy is affectionate and thoughtful and funny, the perfect friend.

Matt smirks. “Should I be sorry?”

Foggy’s breath hitches, and his heart beats faster, but happier. “I’m sure as hell not,” he says, and lets his hand linger on Matt’s elbow.

It’s flirtatious, and it's fond, and Matt’s completely messed up about it.

He wishes he could provoke Foggy, get his reactions out into the open. The spikes of disappointment would be easier to accept if they could fight about it, or at least, if Matt weren’t so disappointed too.

He feels like he’s in withdrawal. Misery had frayed his body for months, and now that Foggy has stitched him up with pleasure it’s all his body wants. He’d thought he’d have dreams about the things Foggy did with his mouth. He didn’t realize he’d dream of these safe, simple touches. 

He knows his reactions around Foggy aren’t right, that they’re laced with unfamiliar desperation and strength. That doesn’t mean he knows how to stop them. But maybe God will know how to speak to the Devil.

* * *

The wood polish and teak of the confessional are familiar and perennial. Its intricate carvings regale the tips of his fingers. A pre-Vatican II confessional, one of the few things Matt’s old-fashioned about. He feels the forgiving presence of God in these trappings.

They make the sign of the cross. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow,” the priest says.

Matt leans towards the lattice. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says. “It has been four months since my last confession.”

“Why didn't you come sooner?”

It’s a standard question, but it sends a twist of guilt through him anyway. Until recently, he’d never never missed confession often enough to hear it. “I’ve been preoccupied,” he says.

“What with?”

Tersely as he can, he tells the story of Elektra, of their breakup, mindful of the people lined up behind him. “During that time I’ve committed lust hundreds of times, fornication about thirty-one, contraception thirty. Blasphemy twelve times, profanity that takes the Lord’s name in vain three times, homosexual practices once, encouragement of others to sin twice,” because he was the one who initiated things with Foggy, “and extreme anger…” He scratches at his neck and sighs. “I’m only certain about once, but I feel angry half the time right now.”

“And heresy three times,” he adds, because his time with Foggy doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels like a gift, even with the problems it’s caused. He’s not sure he could be here today without it. “I’ve been busy.”

“You expect me to be uncomfortable.” There’s a smile in the priest’s voice. “Your sins aren’t so unique or so terrible as you think.”

He tries to chuckle; it comes out darker, heavier than he intends. “You might be surprised.”

“It’s been many years since someone surprised me in confession,” the priest says dryly, and Matt can hear his weight shift in his chair. “Regardless, people don’t sin that much without good reason. Sin is an illegitimate response to real needs. What did you need that drove you to sin?”

Matt frowns. The answer should be straightforward. Affection. Love. Nothing, the Devil just lives in the Murdock boys. But none of them feel right or complete. He’s been feeling that way a lot recently. 

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Then I suggest you find out,” the priest says with a tone of finality. “As penance, think on that, and do one Hail Mary.”

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “One Hail Mary,” he says flatly. “For all that.”

“Well, I’ll also be fasting for you for the next two weeks,” the priest says with good humor. “The catechism calls us to do penance for all who come to us for Confession.” Matt winces. “But yes, a Hail Mary and a lot of thinking. You can learn to meet your needs without sinning. But you need to know what they are first.” 

It’s good advice, and a place to start, and it’s also exhausting. 

He murmurs his way through the Act of Contrition--”to do penance, to sin no more and to avoid whatever leads me to sin”-- and barely notices when the priest absolves him.

“Go in peace,” the priest says.

“Thank you, Father,” he says automatically.

He does feel lighter. He always does after confession. He just wishes, selfishly, that the lightness had come with answers. 

* * *

The next few weeks don’t clarify anything either, just offer continued confusion and temptation. Still, he manages to make it through Finals week. His professors had been more understanding than he deserved, giving him time to make up his work now that he’s got the ability to do it, and he’s still on track for Summa Cum Laude. 

Foggy goes home for Thanksgiving. Matt stays on campus and listens to textbooks for the upcoming semester-- he doesn’t really have anyone to spend the holiday with, and two of the texts aren't on Learning Ally or Bookshare in DAISY format. It’s a good idea to get ahead. 

After Foggy comes back, he’s different. Strange. Hands quiet and pulse slowed. All signs of sadness, pain, but for no reason Matt can identify or fight off, no matter how much he wants to. 

So Matt breaks his routine and heads off-campus, falls back on the one thing he knows he can do to make Foggy happy. A paper bag bulging with it, two $5 boxes and all of the specials. 

When he shows up at the dorm, Foggy’s sitting at the desk, pencil poised over paper. He’s listless, not really writing anything, not turning around to greet Matt either.

He taps him gently on the shoulder. “Fogs.”

Foggy jumps a little, but doesn’t look up. “What is it?”

“Brought you something.” He fumbles for the edges of Foggy’s desk and carefully sets the bag in front of him.

He can hear Foggy’s heart jump in startlement. He twists around to look up at Matt. “Who exactly were you expecting would eat all this?”

“You,” he says with a tentative smile. “It’s a Friendsgiving feast. We didn’t celebrate before you left, so I thought you might like it.”

“Don’t feasts require multiple people? ‘Cause I know none of this is going in your mouth.” But he’s starting to smile too, a corner of the heavy sadness lifting from his shoulders.

Matt coughs. “I’m feasting on your happiness?” he tries. He gets a stifled snort in response.

“I’d be happier if you ate sometimes,” Foggy says, propping his elbow on the desk.

Matt makes a face, but for Foggy’s happiness… “If you’d really like, I could try one of these,” he says reluctantly. He doesn’t think the seven-layer burrito has cheese sauce. That’s his biggest objection to Taco Bell. Well, that and the beef, somehow tastes both like gristle and like sand, but he can swallow that quickly.

He gets the reward he wanted-- a faster, warmer heartbeat. “I _would_ really like,” Foggy beams. “You need more calories. Eat with me, friend.”

They spread the feast out on Foggy’s desk, a mass of salt and paper and preservatives. Foggy picks at the beef taco. Matt takes a bite of his burrito and winces. He can almost feel the dairy fats and palm oil hitting his arteries. But the burrito is less terrible than the nacho sauced foods. He can stomach it.

Foggy swallows a mouthful of food. “This is the stupidest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he says. “Shit, I love it, Matt. And it’s been kind of a week, so I could really use this right now.”

He debates pretending this is news to him, but there’s no reason to. Foggy’s not going to be embarrassed that he cares. “I’d noticed,” he says to another skipped heartbeat. “I’m glad I can help.” 

Foggy pauses, taco halfway to his mouth, and sets it back down. “Hey Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“Planet?”

He breathes in, surprised. “Neptune.”

“I really appreciate this. More than you know.” He settles his hand over Matt’s, that familiar slightly-rough skin and lavender hand soap. “But you know you don’t have to get me anything for me to like you, right? You know you don’t owe me anything?”

_Truth._ Surprising and sharp.

“I know,” he says. The words are technically correct by the time he says them, and for once, he lets himself soak in the steadiness of Foggy’s heartbeat.

* * *

This is healthy, as healthy as he can be right now. A glow of companionship that keeps his desperate obsession at bay. His other coping mechanism... that might be less healthy.

Whenever he’s not socializing, whenever he’s reminded of Elektra, the void is still there, dragging him into nonverbal silence. It twitches and snakes under his skin, constricting around his heart.

He’s only found one non-Foggy way to free himself of its coils. Slipping out of his dorm room in sweats and a tee, wrapping his eyes in that ripped band of cloth. Heading to the rooftops and listening.

_There._

Robbery at 110th and Broadway. Cashier’s frightened, the robber’s intimidated, and he’s yelling angrily about her accent. Paper and plastic pulp flow from the register.

He takes off running. This adrenaline is a need, and he doesn’t know if it’s sinful, but it would be a worse sin to abandon those who are suffering.

* * *

Over the course of months, the mask and the camaraderie smooth the raw edges of his nerves. Elektra still fills his memories, but shattering glass no longer sends him to the void, only the smell of champagne. And his raw, pained need for Foggy starts to settle into something unfamiliar: trust.

Not the kind of trust he gave Elektra. He’s sworn to give that up forever. He’d thought Elektra would be there through the worst because she’d met his worst demons and accepted them. The gleeful darkness, the violence, the abandonment. But knowing and feeding each other’s demons, that’s not a basis for trust. That’s a basis for destruction.

Trusting Foggy is different. He can trust Foggy to be there through the worst, simply because Foggy already has.

He didn’t run when Matt punched through a pillow. Guided him through thirst and self destruction, fed him potatoes when he couldn’t eat, reminded him that he could still feel uncomplicated attraction and affection. And even though Foggy had wanted more, he’d put Matt and his vulnerability first. He hasn’t made a single move Matt hasn’t initiated.

He has months of evidence he can trust Foggy. Matt’s never had a best friend before and he doesn’t really know what to do with it.

Matt’s new best friend says, “Which planet you feelin’ right now?”

They’re on the way back from a campus party, and Matt’s frazzled from the vocal chaos and the smells of alcohol and the grind of the music. Luckily, it’s the perfect time of the evening-- early enough that most of the partygoers are still at the party, late enough that few of them are streaming towards it. The lawn they’re walking across is practically deserted.

Matt grins. “Is this your way of asking me to play Truth or Dare, Foggy?”

“Maaaybe.” Foggy elbows him. “C’mon, Matt. Planet?”

He gives his most put-upon sigh before relenting. “Neptune.”

“Who’s the hottest girl you know?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know,” he says. He’s grateful Foggy specified a gender. “No girls on my radar right now.”

“Boys, then?”

Foggy says it matter-of-factly, with warmth and no judgment, but he fidgets uncomfortably. He’s not used to talking about this, to _thinking_ about it. “No one new at all,” he equivocates.

“Really really? You’re not into anyone?” Foggy sounds disbelieving. “Not even Marci Stahl? Man, Marci’s _so hot_.”

“Definitely not Marci,” he says.

“No? Busty blondes not your type?”

“It’s not that,” he says. “I think she’s cruel and shallow, and the fact that you like her makes me think less of your taste.” She reminds him too much of Elektra for him to be entirely comfortable with her.

Foggy gapes and stops, and it takes him several moments to realize that’s not something Matt Murdock would ordinarily say.

“What the hell, Matt?”

His stomach twists, and he crosses his arms defensively. “You asked for Neptune.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole!”

“It exactly means I have to be an asshole, Foggy,” he says, wounded. “I keep secrets for a lot of reasons. We all do. Neptune means you want me to stop examining those reasons and just answer, and you won’t judge what I say. It’s a gesture of trust.”

“But you can opt out of answering! That’s what Mercury’s for!”

“I…” he tries to find the words. “If I say Neptune, I’m willing to answer. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it seriously, and I wouldn’t say Mercury unless it were an emergency.

“Wow. Uh, I didn’t know.” Truth. Foggy’s heart is startled and guilty. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked for honesty if I didn’t want to know. But… you were treating Neptune as binding, Matt?” He scrubs a hand against his forehead, there’s the sound of acid swimming in his stomach. “Shit, I feel like I’ve been coercing you into telling me things.” 

“You haven’t,” he says, and tries to articulate, tell him how this is a choice. It’s different from coercion, from unhealthy sharing, from Elektra and her demands and her liquid truths. But the thought of Elektra and the sickness of memories fills him. Poison rises again for the first time in weeks: heartbeat rapid, breath coming fast and narrow, throat constricting. “Dammit.” His shoulders hunch up. “Mercury.”

Foggy touches a concerned hand to his arm. “Okay if I hug you, Matt?”

He nods weakly. Foggy envelops Matt in his arms, soft and stable, anchoring him through the flood of sickness. A wall of warmth to hold on to between him and the memories. Distantly, he can feel Foggy’s chin against his shoulder.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there together as the poison washes through Matt’s hollows, but eventually, it starts to recede.

“I’m sorry, Fogs.” He breathes, but it’s a shallow, pitted excuse for a breath. “I promise that wasn’t because of you.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Foggy says firmly, cheekbone moving against the side of Matt’s chin. He doesn’t release him. “I know you’ve been through some shit. I assume you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I would,” he says, and it’s true. This happened _because_ he wanted to explain to Foggy. “I just don’t think I can, yet. More memories.”

  
Foggy sighs. “Can’t get all of them out in one evening, huh.” He brushes the hair back from Matt’s face in a lavender-scented movement so tender that Matt’s voice catches in his throat.

“You did your best,” he says. “And you… you really helped, Foggy. I wasn’t lying about that. You’ve helped me more than anyone.”

“I’m glad, buddy.”

A few strands of Foggy’s hair are brushing against his nose. They’re soft, they’re always surprisingly soft, and there’s that warm smell that reminds him of cinnamon and vanilla, nostalgic and familiar. Foggy’s heart rate is a little elevated, though that’s not surprising given the stress of the situation.

“You okay if I let you go?” Foggy says. “I want to check on something, and I’d rather ask you face to face.”

It’s selfish to say no, so Matt nods, and the comforting pressure and warmth of Foggy’s arms finally recedes into the chill of the evening.

“Should we narrow the focus of Neptune?” Foggy says, hesitantly. “You said it’s a gesture of trust, and I want you to trust me. I really do.” His voice is laced with raw sincerity. “But I don’t ever want you to feel forced to be an asshole, or tell me things you don’t want to.”

“I don’t feel forced,” he says. “When you give me that space, it feels… safe. Freeing.” He smiles ruefully. “But if I’m being an asshole to you, narrower might be best.” He’s got a lot of opinions Foggy wouldn’t like.

Foggy taps at his lip. “How about we limit Neptune to specific topics? Like…” He bites at the fingertip absently, a distracting movement. “ ‘On the topic of cats. Planet?’ And if you say Neptune, you’ve got to tell me about your favorite cat memes, but no outright slander against the very hottest woman in our class.”

He says it with a smile, even if his heart's still a little unhappy. And it’s a solid effort, one meant to keep both of them safe. “Neptune,” he says with a faint smile of his own. “My favorite cat memes are the ones people actually provide alt text for.”

Foggy punches him in the shoulder. _“Boring_. _”_

* * *

Then Foggy starts dating Marci Stahl. Matt shouldn’t have been surprised, but he is. He’s sucker-punched.

There are a few days of panic and adrenaline. Nightmares about her hurting Foggy the way Elektra hurt him. But Marci’s not uncaring, all jokes she makes to the contrary, just tense and hard. Someone who scrutinizes her surroundings unceasingly for something to mock, but someone who genuinely cares for Foggy.

But he doesn’t trust her, and he doesn’t _like_ her. She’s not sweet and earnest the way Foggy is _._ And he knows it’s desperately selfish, but Foggy’s the only good to come from Elektra. Matt wants to keep Foggy’s attention focused on him.

He wants Foggy to be happy even more, though, and Matt’s doing better. This kind of selfishness isn’t excusable anymore. So he frowns but doesn’t say anything when Marci Stahl comes into Foggy’s life. When she digs fingernails into his skin, when he constantly overhears the soundtrack of hitched breathing and quiet whimpers. Her sharpness isn’t what Foggy wants, he thinks. His heart beats less happiness than it did when he was gentle in Matt’s arms.

Matt doesn’t say anything, but every time he overhears Foggy’s noises, a part of him wishes he’d had the courage to take what Marci has. He hates himself for it. That hate is what he deserves for the covetousness. For the sincere blasphemy. For the idolatry. 

He focuses all of his determination, all of his kindness, into Matt Murdock. He focuses all of his frustration, his anger, into the mask. He lets the numbness live everywhere.

* * *

It’s the numbness that brings him to a cheap pub alone, nursing a glass of what he suspects is gin. The smell of pine and varnish overwhelms him with every sip, but it’s better than the void of champagne or Macallan.

A woman separates from a nearby group and stumbles over to him, knocking her knee against the barstool. She’s laughing, but there’s a core of anger and upset the drunkenness has coalesced around. “‘s that a mirror in your pocket?” she says, slinging a heavy arm over his shoulder. “‘Cause I can see myself in your pants.”

She stinks so strongly of drunkenness and reheated vomit he can’t even tell if she’s really interested. He swivels around in her direction, making sure to get the angle a bit off. “Funny,” he says, lifting the rim of his glasses. “I can’t.”

“Oh shit, man.” Her center of gravity destabilizes, but she’s still gripping his shoulder, so he leans subtly toward the counter to keep her upright. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m...” Her eyes go hot, the smell of salt gets stronger.

“It’s fine,” he says. “No harm done. But could I call you a cab?” He gropes ahead of him with exaggerated clumsiness until he’s got his hand on her arm, steadying her. “You seem like you’re having a rough night, and I’d like to make sure you get home safe.” He can’t afford it, but it’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s made it through a few weeks on ramen and peanut butter.

“Could we get a Lyft?”

“Ah.” He can get a Lyft for himself, of course, but to get it on someone else’s phone, he’d need to install VoiceOver, add his profile… “I’m happy to pay for it, but you’d have to set it up. Can you do that?”

“I…” she hiccups. “I.” The tears are coming hotter, faster. He squeezes her arm soothingly.

  
  
“I’ll do it,” says the man next to him. His voice is level, a soothing baritone, and Matt tunes into his heartbeat. No deception, no predation, just truth and concern.

“Thanks, man,” he says with some relief. “Miss, would you mind handing your phone to my friend here?”

They get the ride sorted, flag down one of her friends, and send the trip details to his phone. Then they wait outside with her, even though it’s drizzly and uncomfortable. Matt’s not about to let someone in this state wait alone in the dark outside a bar. 

Once her ride’s on the road, her heartbeat fading into the distance, he finally lets go of the breath he’s holding.

The man next to him does too. “That sure was an adventure,” he says, brushing his hand over his forehead.

“It was.” He nods in the general direction of the man’s voice. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.” He turns back towards the pub. The click of his cane is a bright point of focus in the wet haze of the city.

“Anytime,” the man says. “One second.” He swings the door open for Matt. “I’ve opened the door, you can step through whenever you like. I have to say, I’ve never seen someone respond to a failed pick-up line that sweetly.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable, and ducks back into the comparative din, heading back towards the bar. “She needed help,” he says, a little louder. “I was there. Anyone would have done it.”

“Obvious joke aside, you overestimate how willing most people are to step in.”

He thinks of Elise and his heart twists. “Maybe,” he says, groping behind him and settling back onto the stool. “What’s the obvious joke?”

The man sits next to him and rests his arm on the bar. “Anyone who tried a line that bad definitely needed some help.”

It’s a little mean, but it really was a terrible line. Matt chuckles. “I didn’t realize there were good lines.”

“Of course there are!” The man’s voice is animated. “The ones that are cheesy, not porny. Like ‘are you tired? ‘Cause you’ve been running through my dreams all night.’ ”

“Mmm, borderline,” he says, tucking his feet into the barstool’s metal footrest. “Too easy to turn pornographic. Like ‘good thing I was planning to get a lot of exercise tonight.’ ”

The man takes a deep breath, and there’s a sudden, surprising flash of interest. “Well, after a line like that, I might just buy you a drink. If you’re interested.”

Times like these Matt wishes he had his vision back. Not to use it-- just so he could properly give the guy a Look. “Seriously, man?”

The man shrugs unrepentantly. “I like your kindness and your sense of humor,” he says, propping his head against his hand. “And your face. And unless I completely misread it, you were flirting back just now. I think that’s at least worth a drink.”

Huh. He hadn’t realized, since it felt so familiar, like his and Foggy’s banter. But now that it’s been pointed out to him, he _has_ been flirting back. 

A part of him unwinds. It’s an answer, just one, to a question he hasn’t even let himself ask. Foggy hadn’t been a fluke, or some kind of hormonal response to trauma. He’d been something Matt had missed about himself. 

It’s something he’ll have to take to confession, but it’s a thread of truth, and Matt’s not going to let it slip from his fingers.

“All right,” he says. “One drink, so long as I get to learn the name of my benefactor.”

The man’s heart picks up. Adrenaline, surprise, pleasure. He waves over the bartender. “Another of what he’s having, please.” He shifts, taking the weight off his elbows, and rests just the tips of his fingers on the table next to Matt’s wrist. “I’m Brian,” he says.

“Matt.”

“Figures. You look like a Matt.” It’s light, flirty, even if Matt has no idea what a Matt should look like.

“I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment,” he says, gesturing at his glasses.

“Get a lot of mileage out of that, don’t you.” There’s laughter in Brian’s voice.

He gives Brian his most charming smile. “I like how it sets people at ease,” he says. “So what brings you here tonight?”

His fingers retreat, and the spaces where they were feel strangely chilled. “Ugh, you would remind me,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ex just started dating someone new. It’s cold, it’s rainy. Felt like a good night to sulk.”

  
“I suppose I could say the same.”

Brian tilts his head. “Suppose?”

“Best friend. More of a one-night stand than an ex.”

“Oh, so you do one night stands. And you stay friends with them.” His voice goes low and throaty, vibrating warmth into Matt’s chest. “Aren’t you a catch.”

His hand moves back to its space by Matt’s. This time, his fingertips rest just slightly on top of Matt’s hand. He doesn’t pull away. After a careful moment, the fingertips curl into his skin and begin to stroke slow, tingling patterns there.

His nerve endings are lighting up and it’s hard to stay focused on the conversation through it. ”The staying friends is mostly on… on Foggy.” It’s the first time he’s acknowledged their history out loud to anyone else, and it feels significant. “He’s a good man.”

“Foggy? Foggy Nelson?” Brian's hand stills on Matt’s. “Man, small world. He’s friends with my ex.”

“Foggy’s friends with everyone,” Matt says. And a shockingly large contingent want to be more than friends, he’s discovered.

“Isn’t he with a blond chick now? Damn, that’s harsh.” Brian’s heart accelerates, misinterpreting the expression on Matt’s face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m not exactly out myself.”

“Yet you’re picking up strange men at bars?”

Brian slides his hand over Matt’s wrist and holds it there. “Only the ones who flirt back.”

It’s not a grip meant to bind him, but it feels heavy. And Matt can feel himself responding to it, like he’s been responding all evening. There’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t felt for anyone but Elektra or Foggy in months. And Brian is attractive enough. They’re both just looking for a distraction. He can deliver that.

“Look,” he says uncomfortably, “I know this sounds like a line, but I don’t usually pick men up at bars or anywhere. Foggy’s been my one exception until now.”

Brian leans in. “I like the sound of that ‘until now.’ ” he says, low and intent.

He shrugs. “As long as you know what you’re in for.” He debates sharing the last piece of information, but Brian already knows from context he’s a Blind student from Columbia University. The rest wouldn’t be hard to track down. “Your place, though. Foggy’s my roommate, and all things considered…”

Brian laughs again, sympathetic, and twines his fingers with Matt’s. “Wow, is your life awkward. My place it is.”

* * *

His place is off-campus housing, which is a surprise, but explains his willingness to invite a stranger from his college over when he’s not out. A small studio apartment, minimally furnished, carpet smelling of dust mites and age.

It doesn’t matter. He stops paying attention to it the moment the door shuts and Brian pushes him up against the wall into a kiss.

He kisses differently than Foggy. He feels bad making the comparison, but it’s probably inevitable, with just the two men to compare. Brian is more aggressive in his approach: heavy pressure, lots of biting, lots of enthusiasm, knee between Matt’s legs to rub against him. His hands are under Matt’s shirt already, but he’s not trying to take it off.

“I thought you were in good shape, but you’re fucking _ripped_ ,” he says, running one hand admiringly along Matt’s abs. “Whatever your workout routine is, I wish to God all my one-night stands knew about it.”

Matt grins against his mouth. “I aim to serve.”

A flare goes through Brian’s body and he licks into Matt’s mouth, pressing almost intrusively, and it should be unpleasant but it isn’t. Matt lets himself relax into it, into heat and wet and pressure. But it’s hard to focus completely on the kiss when Brian’s heart is doing such strange things. Speeding, interrupted by a sigh, speeding again.

He breaks the kiss eventually. “Something wrong?” he says.

Brian hesitates. “You willing to try something for me?”

“Sure.” After all, he wouldn’t be here tonight if he weren’t willing to try something new.

“One second.” Brian disentangles himself and walks over to the chest of drawers, rummaging in the top drawer. He emerges with an object Matt doesn’t recognize. “Let me put these on you?” He presses something into Matt’s hand. Polyester and cold metal, round… fuzzy cuffs, the cheap kind even the sleazy sex shops will sell. 

Matt outright laughs. No one could be taking this seriously, right? 

And Brian’s heartbeat feels wounded, like he hadn’t expected the mockery. “Or just forget about it,” he says brittly.

“No, no, sorry.” He’s meant to be distracting them both, not making fun of their preferences. “Like I said, this is new to me, and I’m, I’m a little nervous.” He’s not. There’s no way someone like Brian poses a threat to him. But it’s a safe, easy lie that explains the laugh. “No one’s tried to, ah, cuff me before.”

Brian relaxes fully-- not just at ease, but pleased. “Well, I’m happy to be your first time, sweetheart,” he croons.

The endearment is uncomfortable, infantilizing. He gets a lot of infantilizing for his blindness-- the early days of his love life were just women kissing him chastely at the door, convinced he was too fragile to touch. He chuckles through his discomfort. “All right, put me where you want me,” he says easily. 

That ends up being with Matt’s hands awkwardly held behind him, cuffed together, knees digging into the carpet. The cuffs are far too tight on his wrists, narrow lines of metal digging through the thin polyester fuzz. It’s painful and he feels ridiculous. But Brian’s heartbeat accelerates, like he likes the view very much, and Matt can feel himself responding to the intensity of his desire. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “You’re such a pretty little slut.”

Even more infantilizing. He’s opening his mouth to gently object when Brian says,

“Gonna take good care of you, sweetheart. Tell me: what would you like me to do to you?”

He inhales the words he’s about to say. This. There’s… something about it. A weak echo of Elektra’s forced truths and of Neptune. It hollows him out, sends a spike of something sharp and yearning through him.

“Can you…” He doesn’t really know how to answer Brian. ‘I want more of that’ is unclear, even to him. “Tell me to do something else.”

“Mouthy.” He unbuttons the top button of his jeans and they slide down, exposing his hipbone to the cool of the air. “Would you like that mouth to be useful, sweetheart? Ever given head?” 

Something again, this time a confusing, mixed set of stimuli. ‘Mouthy’ sends heat through him that becomes _lightning_ with the next question. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what he’s responding to, but being asked if he wants his mouth to be useful, he feels it _everywhere_ , almost disappears under the electricity of it. Then ‘sweetheart’ pulls him out of its flow. 

It’s fascinating and he wants to dive back into the swirl of sensations. “Given head, yes, but never to a man. And...” he swallows, the effort of answering the other question shooting more sparks through him, “If you’re interested, yes, I’d like that.”

“Ooh, never even given head. That’s fun.” He sounds unexpectedly delighted, and unzips the jeans entirely, sliding them down to his ankles. “Rub your face on me. Tell me how it feels.” 

He does. It’s a coarse cotton polyester blend, he can’t keep this up for very long. But it’s suffused with Brian’s body heat and thick with the smell of his desire. The way Brian inhales, the way his cock jerks under the friction, even through the boxers, almost makes up for the chafing.

“Good,” he says. “Warm. Heavy.”

“You want that in your mouth?”

He nods. 

Brian slides the boxers all the way off. Tears open the foil packet, slowly and methodically unrolls it on his erect cock.

“C’mere then, baby.” He presses against Matt’s lips.

He learns the taste of mingled latex and lubricant. He hates it. Not as bad as artificial cheese, but bitter and unpleasant. But he likes the weight of it in his mouth, the way Brian is arching forward and pressing into him.

Matt would rather use his hands, he can tell how muffled the reactions are, but Brian’s enjoying himself anyway. He’s throwing praise out that stings pleasantly. “You’re doing just what you’re supposed to. You’re taking it so well,” he says. Matt tries pressing his tongue to the underside of the tip, the movement that had been too much when Foggy tried it on him, and he’s rewarded with a moan. “Oh, yeah, my sweet baby girl.”

In his mind he hears Elise crying and flinches back, jaw going slack. The expression on his face must be something, because Brian’s abdominal muscles and thighs clench. His heartbeat is fast and unhappy and Matt should really explain himself.

“Sorry,” he says, and racks his brain for some way to salvage this reaction with a lie. He can’t think of anything-- it was too obvious, too specific. “I knew a girl who, whose father was…”

“Got it,” Brian says, curtly, and the muscles clench harder. “You know I’d never really--”

“Of course,” Matt shakes his head. “Of course I do.” Nothing that Brian is doing or feeling is predatory. It’s not Brian’s fault Matt’s this way.

Brian’s muscles relax, minutely. “Good.”

But the mood never really recovers, which Matt fully understands. The rest of the evening is... efficient. Brian keeps going soft with the condom on, so they remove it and the cuffs and Matt finishes him with a hand. (He needs a much lighter touch than Foggy does, but heavier and faster than his own preference). He waves off Brian’s half-hearted attempt to reciprocate.

It’s awkward and forgettable. Nothing like his evening with Foggy. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that.

They kiss at the door and don’t exchange numbers. He still doesn’t have any answers, about himself, about why he keeps sinning. But he has another body between him and the memories of Elektra, between him and his unhealthy obsession with Foggy. And it shouldn’t make a difference, but it does.

And even though it didn’t go very well… still, there was _something._


	5. Secrets

It gives him the fortitude to take a step back, to try to rebuild. He knows he’s been distant, these last few weeks, hasn’t even continued their Taco Bell routine. And he knows the constant rebuffs have been hurting Foggy. Foggy takes everything personally, and Matt had given him every reason to do so here, with the earlier dismissal of his taste in women and the way he's avoided seeing him with Marci. 

So Foggy’s seeing someone Matt’s not particularly fond of. It’s not the end of the world, and he needs to stop treating it that way.

He steps over to Foggy’s desk. “Hey Fogs,” he says, hesitantly. “I’m, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. If you’re not busy, would you like to grab drinks?”

Foggy snaps his laptop shut and smiles up at him, affection and forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. “I’d love that, Matt. Could definitely use a break.”

Three hours and three rounds of drinks later, they’re stumbling their way back to campus, Foggy’s arm slung over his shoulder for stability. They settle onto the steps while he tries to make the world not lurch and turn.

“Lightweight!” Foggy laughs, punches him in the shoulder with the hand that had been supporting him. “Hey, hey, on… on the topic of the spins, the whole spins, nothing but the spins. Planet?”

“Neptune,” he says immediately.

Foggy tilts his head. “Do you _get_ the spins? Can you get those if you can't see?”

Matt loves that Foggy is never afraid to ask, never dances around the subject of his blindness. “Yeah, I get the spins.”

“Really?”

He nods, which is a mistake, and has to take a moment before continuing. “Yeah, it's, it's an equilibrium thing, it's not your eyes. Liquid in your inner ear gets disturbed, has trouble leveling off or something.”

“Huh.” Foggy tries to rest his chin on his hand and mostly ends up resting it on his thumb. “That sucks. Thought you might get a pass on that one.”

“No, it's even worse for me, I think. 'Cause my senses are so--” His mouth catches up with his brain, clamps shut on the word. “Mmm.” 

“So what? Delicate?”

“Hmm?” Agreeing is the easy answer here, the right answer, but.

Foggy jabs Matt painfully with a finger. “So what, Matt?”

But Matt can’t bring himself to do it. Stick said never to tell anyone. But this is Neptune, and Foggy asked a direct question. Foggy, who’s seen him at his worst already. 

He can trust Foggy enough for this. He can. He squares his shoulders.

“So powerful,” he says. “Much more than usual.”

Foggy’s looking at him in glassy-eyed confusion. “Shut up,” he says. “That old wives’ tale is true? Blind people _do_ hear better?”

“Not unless the old wives got chemicals splashed in their eyes,” he says wryly. “That’s what cranked everything up for me.”

“How strong we talking here?” Foggy just sounds curious, happy, and Matt’s heart expands into it.

“You asked how I fought,” he says. “I know where the punching bag is. I feel the direction of the air currents around it. Smell the leather and sweat where it starts.”

“You can _see_ a punching bag with your _nose_ ? That’s so _cool_ , Matt.”

“Not exactly see,” he says. “I’m still NLP blind. But yes, I can sense it.”

“Can you sense me?”

He smiles. “You’re my favorite thing to sense, Fogs.” He likes using the nickname. True to his word, Foggy had started using ‘Foggy’ with everyone, and now it was the name most of his friends knew him by. But no one’s switched over to diminutives yet. ‘Fogs’ is just his.

“Tell me about it. Sense me up!”

“Well.” He shouldn’t, but Foggy sounds so earnest and open and he’s giddy with it. “You haven't showered for three days. Very eau de law school.” Foggy laughs again and leans against him. “You ate a pastrami sandwich two days ago. You're not as drunk as you think you are. Your blood alcohol content... your driving skills are impaired, but not by much. You shouldn’t even be stumbling. And the more I say, the faster your heart beats. You sound interested, Foggy, and it’s nice.”

“I sound interested.” His voice sounds suddenly flat. He sits up. “My heart. You can hear my heartbeat from over there?”

“I can hear everyone’s heartbeat, within a two block radius or so,” he says. “It helps to anticipate behavior. Tell when people are lying, or hiding something, or wanting something.”

“You can hear heartbeats from two blocks away? You do a polygraph on _two blocks of people_ without their permission?”

His stomach is sinking. This is why he hadn’t told Foggy. But he’d promised him Neptune, so he keeps going. “Only one person at a time. It takes focus. But yes, I can.”

“So our whole friendship, you could tell when I was lying,” Foggy says. “Whenever I felt something I wasn't saying.” He presses a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, I’m gonna be sick.”

“You said Neptune,” he says, a little loud. “Neptune means I tell the truth, no judgments.” Stick was right, this was a mistake, it was a mistake to let anyone know. “This feels like a judgment.”

“I’m not judging, I’m freaking out, OK?” Foggy’s voice is high-pitched, head still pressed to his hand like he doesn’t want to look at Matt. “I’m freaking out. You’re fine, just… just give me a minute, Matt.”

Matt waits, all of his attention focused on Foggy. The muscles around Foggy’s eyes vibrate like he’s squinting. His pulse is rapid. He’s clenching his teeth hard enough that Matt’s worried he’s going to damage them.

Then abruptly, it all releases, and Foggy sags like squashed silly putty. He sits there in stillness, breathing, for what feels like an eternity of moments. Then he pulls one knee up in front of him on the steps, then the other. He wraps his arms around them. 

“Dammit,” he whispers. “I worked so hard to keep my shit from being your shit. I was so careful with my reactions around you.” He presses his chin into his chest, hard enough that his neck cracks, and wiggles his feet restlessly. “I hate that it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t,” Matt says furiously, reaching out and resting a hand on Foggy’s knee. “You set aside your feelings and made space for me even when it hurt you. I admire you more because of your lies, not less.”

Foggy’s heart squeezes and his breath catches on an inhale. “Thanks, buddy. I admire you too. But, well, you know that, don’t you.”

It’s a discomfiting question with an answer he’s not going to examine. “Foggy. I… thank you,” he says.

Foggy sighs. “I had plans for this evening. I was gonna ask about you and your dad, what it was like learning to box,” he says. “Get to know you, maybe work up the courage to ask the deeper questions. But since you’re apparently psychic, and since I’m even more curious now, I might as well just skip ahead.” He lifts his head from his chest and turns it towards Matt. “Can I see you fight sometime? I’ve wanted to since I saw you accidentally destroy a pillow. And now that I know about the super-senses, you don’t have to pretend to miss the bag sometimes.”

He flinches. It’s the last question he expected, and the last thing he wants to share with Foggy. The darkness, the ugliness, the Devil in him. What got unleashed onto Roscoe Sweeney and onto criminals shouldn’t touch his friend. “I’m a different person when I’m in the ring, Foggy,” he says roughly. “You wouldn’t like him.”

“Matt.” Foggy’s breath changes in the way it does when he's about to speak, but the silence lingers longer than normal, his heart rate shoots back up. “Fuck. Can you not… no, then you won’t believe me. Fuck.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can I ask for another planet, Matt? On the subject of comfort levels?” 

“Neptune,” he says, a little puzzled.

Foggy huffs out a breath. “How much does it weird you out when I’m hot for you?” he says bluntly. “‘Cause I was trying to keep it out of your way, but, well, cat’s out of that bag. Should I try to avoid topics that make me think about it?”

It’s another question with an answer Matt’s really not comfortable with, an answer he’s spent months building a shell around, and it’s delicate and he’s afraid of letting it break. “I’m not going to police what you think about, Foggy.”

“But does it bug you? It’s been a rough year for you, buddy, and if I can help it, I don’t want to contribute.”

Matt presses his thumb into his eyelid, a movement the nuns had tried to make him unlearn, but one he returns to in times of stress. Foggy’s _impossible_. Matt’s just sprung on him that none of his feelings, none of his intentions are ever a secret from Matt, and his first thought is to _avoid his own thoughts_ to make _Matt_ more comfortable. “No, Foggy. It… it doesn’t bug me at all.”

“Okay. Good. Then this is just embarrassing for me.” He wiggles his feet again. “I cordially invite you to do your weird heartbeat polygraph thing.” 

Matt nods and focuses. Foggy’s heartbeat is steady, but a little nervous. 

He takes a deep breath. “I know you’re a different person when you fight,” he says. “I got a taste of that with your wanton post-breakup destruction of property. And I like that person just fine.” He stops breathing for a moment, then lets it out, slow and shaky, along with a slightly wild laugh. His blood is coursing fast and the patterns of his body heat are shifting. “I’d really, really like to know that person.” 

He smells, intensely, like _want_. 

Matt boggles. “ _What?_ ”

Foggy’s face is hot, but his heart is steady. “Yeah, Matt. I mean, who wouldn’t want to see that! Muscles. Skill.” True, but an elevated skip that means deception. 

He wasn’t prepared for this at all. “Uh. Uhm.” He can feel heat rising to his own face, unaccustomed and flustered. “I’m not much for demonstrations.”

Foggy’s heart jumps, like he’d expected a straight rejection. “It doesn’t need to be anything fancy-- I just want to see your routine,” he says coaxingly. “And, I admit, to see your superpowers at work.”

Why does Foggy want to see him do _this_ with his powers? Foggy is all smooth open friendliness, Matt in the mask all caged violence. Their pieces don’t fit together. 

“I…” And it’s terrifying, the idea of letting someone else he cares about close to that part of him. When he showed it to Elektra, she saw a monster. She left when he failed to be that monster she loved. 

But Foggy has never left him. Foggy’s worth trusting, he reminds himself. If he repeats it enough, maybe he’ll be able to really believe it. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll take you sometime. Whenever you like.” 

He flushes more heavily. God _damn_ his tongue.

“Thanks, buddy,” Foggy says, face still heated too, and mercifully lets it go.

It’s more difficult for Matt. It takes every last drop of his willpower, all of his training, to force his mind back to the most important question. “You’re not going to, uh, tell anyone, right?”

“About my bestie and his superpowers? No way.” Foggy’s voice is warm and soothing. “Too good a secret to share. But while I’ve got you here… anything else I should know?”

He considers. The mask is a secret, something Foggy doesn’t know, but Foggy _shouldn’t_ know it. Knowing will make him a target.

“Not really,” he says, and ignores the part of him that feels guilty at the technicality. 

* * *

True to his promise, Matt takes him to Fogwell’s the night after their last final exams. The lights hum loudly when he turns them on-- an unaccustomed, jarring note during his evening practice. But Foggy wants to see. 

“This is it.” He gestures around him to the ring, the brick whose echoes have dulled with age, the fluorescent lights. “The gym where I grew up.”

“I’m glad to see it, Matt,” Foggy says, and he _is_ , sincerely. He’s swiveling his head around, taking in the room with curiosity and a bright happiness. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He nods rather than respond. ‘Anytime’ isn’t something he can comfortably say-- he’s still not sure about Foggy seeing this. Being here.

“So where do you usually start?” Foggy walks over to the wall and leans against it, his weight settling against the cooler brick.

“Heavy bag,” he says with some hesitation, jostling it with his elbow. Really, he’d usually start with the speed bag, but he wants to keep this simple, easy for Foggy to follow.

He starts with the fundamentals. Leading jab, right hook. Jab, cross. The familiar flow of the movements is relaxing, but he doesn’t let himself drop his guard, keeps the movements languid. Safe.

“Matt.” Foggy’s voice interrupts. “Stop.”

He freezes.

Foggy sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that, dude. But remember, I’ve seen you scrapping with inanimate objects before. You’re holding back.” He sounds a little disappointed. 

Matt’s not sure how to respond-- he can’t tell the truth, which is that anything he does here would be holding back. That Foggy will only get a glimpse of what Matt can do, because what he’s trained to do is fight opponents. To know their weak points. Push and pull and twist strategically so they lose their balance, hit them where it hurts the most, disable them efficiently. Foggy wouldn’t like to know that, let alone see it.

But Foggy’s right, too. Even against a bag, he’s not putting up much of an effort.

“Yeah,” he admits, and makes the mistake of joking about what’s too close to mind. “The bag doesn’t make much of an opponent.”

Foggy lights up everywhere, happiness and adrenaline and more of that confusing desire. “You’re right,” he says. “If I’m really gonna see your superpowers, I’ve got to see you against a moving target.” He pushes off the wall.

“Foggy, _no_ ,” he says in horror, backing up a step. “No. I won’t fight you.”

“Not like that!” Foggy says hastily, waving his hands. “Like I said, nothing fancy. But…” he rests one hand at the corner of his mouth. “When I did karate as a kid, we used those punch mitts for target practice. Got anything like that I could move around?”

He considers. He hates the idea, _hates_ it. If the idea of Foggy getting close to this part of him is uncomfortable, the idea of actually _touching_ Foggy with this part of him is painful. But it’s getting harder and harder to say no, these past months, to the few things he can give Foggy that make him genuinely happy, and happiness is pouring from Foggy right now. 

He breathes. Swallows. He’s accurate. He can hit the mitts and never Foggy. 

“All right,” he says, but his voice cracks.

“Hey.” Foggy walks over to him. “I’m not afraid of you, Matt.” His voice is gentle, but determined, and he curls one hand over Matt’s bicep. “I’m not gonna be afraid of you.”

“I hear you,” he says with a half-smile.

They retrieve the punch mitts tucked in the storage area under the ring. Matt double-checks them, making sure they’re in good shape, large enough for Foggy’s hands, secure enough not to fall off. He knows he’s scrabbling for any excuse not to do this.

“Okay,” Foggy says, once the mitts are on and they’ve climbed into the ring. “Hit this one.” He holds a mitt in front of him, and he’s had minimal training, at least, he’s holding his elbows close enough to his body.

Matt gives it a tentative jab. Foggy moves the mitt sideways. Another jab, softer than the first.

“Cool, good aim,” Foggy says wryly. “But maybe actually try?”

His attention slips. He leans into his punch hard enough that it propels Foggy back a few feet, makes him stumble off-balance. And Foggy _laughs_ , the sound ringing out hot and delighted and liquid. “That’s more like it!” Matt feels his face opening into a proud, fierce grin, and Foggy’s breath catches.

Foggy circles him, presenting easy targets and bracing against the impacts. He sweeps the pads at Matt, testing his defenses, feeding him targets faster, until Matt suspects he’s moving as quickly as he can manage. It’s just enough of a challenge that he has to focus. Jab, hook, uppercut. Foggy turns one mitt outward, dipping it down to chest height; Matt grins wider at the opportunity and rotates his hips into a roundhouse kick with a satisfying _thwack_. 

Foggy stops. “They teach that one at your boxing gym?” he says breathlessly.

He’s still grinning. “Nope.”

A shot of adrenaline. Foggy’s heart accelerating into happiness and focus. He returns the mitts to their place in front of him. “Okay then. Show me what else you got, roomie.”

It’s not the fierce competition of a real sparring partner. But he feels like he could stay here forever with Foggy, all of his focus on the punch mitts and on the freedom of the fight, Foggy’s pulse steady and joyous and wanting.

* * *

The simplicity of it can’t last. Two weeks after graduation and three weeks after they turn down the L&Z jobs, Marci dumps Foggy. Without ceremony but, Matt gathers, with explanation, the details of which Foggy is resolutely not sharing. 

“The shittiest part is, I can’t even blame her.” Foggy’s voice echoes into the beer can, hollows and flattens against the liquid inside. “She wasn’t wrong about anything she said, but she just… I tried for her, Matty. I was trying.” Something in Matt goes funny, hearing the nickname that only his father and Stick had used for him before. It hurts, but he doesn’t want Foggy to stop.

He scoots closer on Foggy’s shitty couch, the one he’d found on the street and actually hauled up to this new apartment. He’s lucky it didn’t have bedbugs. “You might not be able to blame her, but I can,” he says, touching his arm. “She was an idiot to pass you up.”

Foggy snorts with laughter and leans back, not something Matt was expecting. “Do you know that’s one of my _lines_? God, I’m pathetic.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not pathetic,” he says. “You’re kind, and loyal, and giving.” Better than Matt deserves, always. “I meant what I said. She’s an idiot.”

It comes out wistful. Too vulnerable, too revealing. He’s shamefully glad Foggy’s tipsy and unlikely to notice. “It’s not a line,” he adds, because Foggy needs to know he’d never try to take advantage of his vulnerability.

Foggy’s stomach clenches miserably and heat builds at the rims of his eyes. “I get tired of hearing that list.” He wipes his knuckle under one eye. “Kind, loyal, helpful, generous, thoughtful, giving. _Useful_ words. I just…” He drags his hand along the couch arm in a painful rasp. “I wish _I_ mattered to people, not just how useful I am.” He digs his nails in.

“You matter to me,” he says, stomach twisting at the pain in Foggy’s voice. “You matter so much, Fogs.” He slides an arm around his waist and hugs him close, wanting to take some of the sadness from him. “If those compliments make you feel differently, I’ll stop giving them. I just want you to know how great you are.”

Foggy rubs a knuckle against the corner of his eye again and drops his hand back to the couch, twists his neck towards Matt. He can’t ever know for sure, the details are too granular for his senses, but he thinks Foggy’s staring at him, trying to figure something out. Putting together a puzzle.

His heart starts beating faster, like he’s decided where a piece goes. “Hey Matt,” he says. “On the subjects of what you like and what you want. Planet?”

“Neptune for both,” he says.

Foggy exhales. “When we hooked up,” he says, voice quiet. “That was fun, right? We had fun?”

Matt actually jumps, his own heart kicking into high gear, because this is more he’s built a shell around. But Foggy asked for Neptune, which means Foggy needs this. He doesn’t let himself think about the reason for the question too long, or the implications of the only honest answer he can give. “Yeah, Foggy. It’s one of my most treasured memories.”

“Good. ‘m glad.” He shifts sideways to face Matt, twisting in the crook of Matt’s elbow and pressing it into the couch. “Then how come you never wanted that repeat performance, hmm?”

Foggy’s body’s transparent right now, alive with the thing they’re not acknowledging, that’s present in so much of how they interact. His whole body is open towards Matt like a flower seeking the sun’s radiation. Heart rate accelerating, nervous and anticipatory.

Oh, _Foggy._

Matt never expected to reverse their roles. For Foggy to reach for his warmth while he was hurting. It cracks the fragile shell he’s built around his truths and they flood over him. 

Matt’s not the sun. Foggy’s the one people bask in, who warms every gloomy corner. But he’s leaning towards Matt like he has sunlight in him, even after having befriended his darkness. 

Matt wants him so much.

Matt uprooted his addiction to Foggy’s touch weeks ago, but something new has taken root, tender shoots growing in Foggy’s reflected light. He wishes, more than anything, he could let it bloom. Fortify Foggy’s smile against the shape of his own. Swallow Foggy’s shadows, fill his cold, hollow places with shared warmth and affection. 

But he can’t. Last time, Matt needed more than simple warmth and affection, needed to burn out the fight under his skin. He hasn’t found the right kindling yet. He’s found pieces of driftwood, twigs, but they’re all broken, _he’s_ still broken. 

Foggy’s bright warmth should be enough for anyone. Until Matt knows why it wasn’t, he doesn’t have the right to touch Foggy. Not the way he wants to. It’s his turn not to take advantage, even if he regrets his decision already.

“Mercury,” he says quietly. He reaches out and squeezes Foggy’s hand, hoping Foggy can somehow tell how unbelievably not-personal this is. Selfishly lets himself take in what warmth he’s allowed of Foggy’s touch.

Foggy sighs, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, buddy. I gotcha.” He kisses Matt’s forehead, a wet, tender smooch that haunts his skin for months.

* * *

It’s another thing they don’t talk about. 

They open the practice together they dreamed about at Josie’s and on napkins. They take the first cheap office space that doesn’t smell of murder. Their first case lands them a beautiful, sharp office manager who sullies it immediately. 

They don’t have many clients, and half the ones they do have can only pay in phyllo dough pastries, but Matt’s doing what he’s always wanted-- protecting the innocent, taking on the clients that the large corporate firms ignore. He should be happy.

And Foggy makes fun of Karen’s coffee and invites her out for drinks when she’s sad. He zips through legal research with a speed and cleverness Matt can only admire now. He beams warmth and good humor and affection every day for him to bask in. The perfect friend, just like always.

But he never asks Matt about a repeat performance again.


	6. Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to templewulf and [Upupanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway) for wonderful, helpful betas. This work is immeasurably better because of your help.

Matt sucks air between his teeth and carefully peels the sleeve back from his abraded skin.

A restless, angry unfocus has consumed him for weeks. It’s making him sloppy. He’s unspooled the corruption behind Union Allied, he’s increased his patrols to every other evening, but it’s all barely dulling the edge he’s on.

The wound burns as he swipes it with alcohol-saturated gauze. He makes sure to clean out all the cotton fibers, which itch under his scabs and create tiny infected pockets that smell foul and queasy.

Still. A few abrasions he can hide behind a suit is an improvement on his recent track record.

A familiar heartbeat drums at the periphery of his perceptive range. He winds gauze around the abrasion, snips the end of the roll. Foggy’s just a few blocks away. He stuffs the bloodied shirt to the bottom of the chest and closes it. Shrugs on sweats and settles down, best as he can, to wait.

And wait. More and more puzzled, as the familiar heartbeat travels between local stores and bodegas for twenty minutes, as it drifts slowly towards his apartment. Even _more_ puzzled, then amused, as it begins to pace outside, back and forth, back and forth. What is Foggy _doing_?

After Foggy’s third circuit, Matt picks up his phone and calls him.

“Hey Fogs.” He lets his amusement sound through the circuits of the telephone. “You remember I can hear you from two blocks away, right?”

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. “Shit.”

The amusement escalates to a stifled laugh. “Sure was a lot of stops. Setting up a scavenger hunt?”

“More like a house of mirrors.” Foggy’s voice is trapped between laughter, resignation, and sulking.

“Sounds fun. There a prize at the end?”

“I _am_ a prize, Murdock. But yeah, I brought you something.”

Interesting. “Then come on up.”

When Foggy gets off the phone, his heart rate is increased. Nervousness, anticipation. But Foggy’s feet are light as he traipses up the steps. Paper crinkles happily in his hands.

Three minutes later, as he’s stepping up to the door, Matt cracks it wide. “Welcome, Fogs.”

Foggy reshuffles the bags into one hand so he can clap Matt on the back. “Thanks, buddy. For you.” Foggy lifts a bag entreatingly.

Matt takes it with the uninjured arm, but he must look quizzical. “Prepared black-eyed peas, tamales, soba, and pickled herring,” Foggy recites, “which is a thing people apparently eat. I’m excited to find out why.” He brushes past Matt into the kitchen, and he sets the bag on the counter with a sigh of exertion and a heavy thump.

Matt follows him, shoulder and hip still tingling from the brief contact. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but this is entirely a surprise. A perplexing one. “What’s the occasion?”

Foggy who’s been pulling containers from the bag, stutters to a stop. Inhales in preparation, then doesn’t speak. Like he’d expected the question, but the answer was eluding his tongue.

A thread of cold weaves taut through Matt. “Something wrong, Fogs?” He’s been careful, kept Foggy away from his investigation’s dangers, but even its legal elements could attract the wrong kind of attention.

“No, no,” Foggy says, and the thread relaxes. “The answer’s just…” His fingernail taps against the counter with a ratcheting click. “Sorry. This is weird, and I don’t want to be intrusive.”

Matt doesn’t want to intrude either. He waits.

“You’ve been off lately, Matt.” Foggy’s head is tilted down, examining his fingertips. “You’re the opposite of clumsy, but you’re showing up with bruises.” He shrugs, a helpless, involuntary movement. “I’ve been worried.” 

Matt knew Foggy had noticed-- he’d been turning his head towards Matt all week, heart pounding with concern. But Matt had expected a conversation, not whatever this is. 

“Then I really started thinking about it, and…” He drums his fingertips against the counter. “It’s been about a year since Elektra.”

Matt’s breath catches on an inhale. Jagged, pained, the void filling his lungs. Foggy’s right. It’s September again, the first since she left. He hadn’t realized.

Foggy turns back to face him. “Our bodies remember painful anniversaries, better than we do. That’s what was up with me last Thanksgiving. Not that I got it at the time.” His smile is soft. _Canned cranberry sauce and white bread were my only calories,_ Matt remembers now. “But you dumping Taco Bell on my desk for Friendsgiving? That made it easier. A lot easier. I just wanted to give you something to celebrate, like you did for me.”

Something bright and warm stabs through the void in his chest. By accident, he’s finally given Foggy something of meaning. But of course, Foggy just thinks of returning it with interest. 

Foggy paid so much attention. Remembered when Matt was bleeding over Elektra, cared enough about the scars to invent a holiday. And he’s given Matt an explanation for the edge that’s been cutting him lately, the first explanation that makes sense. He could _kiss_ Foggy for that.

He can’t kiss Foggy. Won’t. But he's dangerously close to saying something he shouldn’t. 

“Then what’s the pickled herring for?” he jokes instead.

Foggy takes advantage of his proximity to elbow him. “It’s a New Year’s dish, Matt, according to the powers of Google. All of these are.” He fidgets. “It’s been a long year, and I wanted to start a new one with you. Plus, it’s the anniversary of when we got to know each other.” He sounds bashful.

The warmth skewering his chest deepens. Foggy researched and found dishes, walked all over the neighborhood procuring them. All for Matt. “Got to know each other.” It brims over, pooling into heat in his voice. “Is that what we’re calling it now.”

Foggy inhales, and there’s a series of reactions. A spike of want. Disappointment. And now embarrassment, because he knows Matt can sense it. Still, his voice is even. “In polite company.” It’s even, and cheerful, and _attracted_ , and Matt hasn’t thought this all the way through. The desire to chase it is irresistible.

He takes a step closer, involuntarily. “Good thing neither of us is polite,” he says, voice low, a longing under his fingertips.

But Foggy stumbles back, and the spell is broken. “I considered bringing over New Years’ party crackers too,” Foggy says, brightly, voice barely shaking, “but I didn’t think your delicate senses would appreciate it.”

He laughs weakly. “They’re not… not _delicate_. They’re _powerful._ ” Too close, too obvious. He has to stop doing this to them. 

“So you tell me,” Foggy says. “But I’ve seen those senses collapse under the robust might of the Sriracha Quesarito. I think they skipped leg day.” 

Foggy turns back to the counter and continues pulling plastic and paper from the bag. “The pickled herring does triple duty, actually,” he says conversationally. “In Poland and Scandinavian countries, herring means prosperity and abundance. In China, all fish does the same thing, which is a practical choice.”

“I’m still not sure I’m going to eat it.” Almost everything is spread out now, and Matt walks to the silverware drawer to grab forks and plates.

Foggy spreads his arms wide. “More for me.” He picks up one of the tubs-- black-eyed peas, redolent with tomatoes and garlic. “Hey, Matt, think fast.”

He lobs it in Matt’s direction. His aim’s somewhat off, but Matt catches it one-handed anyway and shoots Foggy a grin.

Foggy shoots one back. “Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing that.” Warmth eats further into the void in Matt.

The tamales are delicious, as is the noodle dish that tastes of buckwheat. Field peas have a dry, gritty texture Matt finds challenging, but their seasoning is excellent. Matt avoids the pickled herring, but doesn’t resist when Foggy impales a piece and feeds it to him. It’s marginally less terrible than anticipated; the pickling reduces the fishiness and the fishiness reduces the overwhelming pickled flavor.

The flavors clash, but they overlap too, carbohydrates and protein and salt and umami. It’s a surprisingly good dinner.

Foggy swallows a bite and wipes his mouth. “How about it, Matt? Is this New Year’s dinner sufficiently novel?”

Novel, varied, flavorful, warmed with companionship and consideration like a hearth. He doesn’t know how he can thank Foggy for it.

“I dunno. I’m feeling a little nostalgic,” he teases. “Got any potatoes?”

Foggy laughs. “I’m amazed you ever want to eat a potato again.” More seriously, he adds, “You’ve come so far since then, buddy. I’m proud of you.”

Truth, one that brings a lump to Matt’s throat. And maybe it’s the pride, something so few people feel in him, but a memory strikes him, a realization. 

“My…” The words won’t come. He can’t get past the wall of secrecy, the words are too heavy to lob over. “Foggy, uh.” It’s frustrating. He _wants_ Foggy to have this truth, as thanks for everything else he’s done tonight. “Could you ask me for a planet, on the topic of September?”

Foggy’s heart goes shocked, then concerned, then gratifyingly pleased. “Sure, Matt,” he says warmly. “About September. Planet?”

“Neptune,” he breathes, and settles back. The words lighten, the fulcrum of the scales rebalances. Ease slips over him.

“What were you wanting to tell me about, Matt?” Foggy says, he _understands_. 

“My father also passed in September,” Matt says, words that had been so impossible a moment ago. “I’d forgotten. I think this wasn’t the only year it’s been difficult.”

Foggy’s heart skips. “Then I’m extra glad to be here,” he says softly, and presses warmth and lavender into Matt’s shoulder. “Wanna make this a tradition? Something to look forward to in a shitty month?”

Matt smiles at him. “Only if you’ll spare me a day in November.” He wants to be in Foggy’s corner too.

Foggy lifts a glass. “To new winter holidays. Winter-ish. And to drinks better than Clubtails.”

“To new holidays.” He clinks the glass and sets it down untouched, struck by another thought. One that makes his heart pound and stomach clench, but one he wants to follow through on. Because Foggy is proud of how far Matt’s come, and because Matt’s not strong enough to do this alone yet.

“I know you just spent a long time out,” he says, “but would you mind if we made an extra stop? There’s something I’d like to add to the tradition.” 

Foggy listens while he explains, then nods. “I’d love to, Matt.”

They walk together to the liquor store down the street, Matt’s hand in the crook of Foggy’s elbow even though they both know he doesn’t need it. The idea of champagne still makes him shaky and nauseated, but they stop by the whisky section together and bring home a bottle of Macallan to share.

It tastes like a new year he can look forward to.

  
  


* * *

For a few weeks, it is. He’s still impatient and haphazard, but less frantic, since there’s a reason for it and an eventual end. Things are strained with Foggy, a fluctuating tension, but their friendship is still affection and trust he’s never felt before. He can live with the balance the new year has struck.

Then a confrontation with the Russians unbalances him into a dumpster, unconscious.

Slowly regaining consciousness after losing a third of your blood is unpleasant. No part of a new year to look forward to. But he hadn’t expected to regain consciousness at all. Doubly hadn’t expected to awaken on someone’s couch instead of in that dumpster.

Someone next to him is reaching for a phone. He grabs their wrist. “No,” he croaks. “No calls.”

“We have to get you to the hospital.” A woman’s voice, firm and concerned.

“They’ll kill everyone in the hospital to get to me,” he grits out. His face feels cold, and he gropes at it: no comforting whisper of cotton.

“You’ve seen my face,” he says, the cold leaching into the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah,” the woman says. “Your outfit kind of sucks, by the way. Do you mind telling me how a blind man in a mask ends up beaten half to death in my dumpster?”

He shakes his head, groans at the pain it shoots through him. “The less you know about me, the better.”

She calls him Mike when he refuses to identify himself. She doesn’t call the hospital, which is the most he could ask for. But surprisingly, she goes further. She helps him stay alive. When he can’t breathe, she diagnoses him efficiently and pierces his chest with a needle a layperson wouldn’t have. 

“Are you a doctor?” he asks. An off-duty ER doctor would explain how he’s alive, how his injuries have been bandaged and splinted so expertly.

“The less you know about me, the better,” she says. He huffs out a surprised laugh, then winces as it hits a cracked rib.

She stays, too, after he drags the Russian to the roof and lets exhilarating rage flow into his hands. “I need you to know,” he says conversationally, “I’m doing this because I enjoy it.” While the man’s dangling over the edge, Matt can smell his terror. Smell how he’d do anything to stop this from happening.

She doesn’t approve. But she’s the first person, the only person, to know who he is, what he tries to do for the city. And she’s not afraid of him. She wants to help.

_Claire_ , he repeats. He’ll remember it.

* * *

“Still having a rough time, huh,” Foggy says sympathetically.

Matt stills his hand on the court transcripts he’s reading. Karen’s already left for the day. He should be gone too, but something here implicates the person responsible for the hitmen. He knows it, and he can't rest until he's found it.

“How do you figure?” he says.

Foggy prods him on the shoulder, and he stifles a flinch. “The way you’re moving is off,” Foggy says. “Less fluid.”

Matt _is_ moving slower. If he twists wrong for the next week or so, he’ll reopen one of the stab wounds. He didn’t want to explain that, so-- slow and methodical it was. It startles Matt that Foggy noticed.

Foggy perches on the edge of the desk. “Planet on why you’re moving different?” His voice is gentle.

“Mercury,” he says, quickly and a little harshly. Foggy flashes surprise and hurt, suppressed so fast he’s clearly trying to keep it from Matt. He appreciates the failed effort. “It’s not you,” he adds. The openness they shared for the new year lingers in shreds like tattered cloth, bandages he wants to wrap around Foggy’ heart. “I’m not comfortable talking about it with, with anyone. Neptune would make me.”

Foggy’s shoulders relax minutely. “I get it.” Guilt crawls back into his voice. “Though it still weirds me out that you treat Neptune as binding. I just meant to give you space.”

It’s the second time Foggy’s mentioned the way Matt understands Neptune: obviously it’s been on his mind. “Does it bother you? Me treating it that way?”

The guilt sharpens. “Not at all,” Foggy confesses. “But I feel like it should.”

Truth. A burden Foggy shouldn’t carry.

“If you still feel like it’s coercive, don’t. I tried to explain…” He revisits the conversation from last year. He said a few disjointed words, then swore and refused to talk about it further. No wonder Foggy’s confused. 

But it’s October, now. Over a year since Elektra. The uneasy ice has melted from the world around him, the void is further away. He takes a breath. “I can explain better now, if you want to know. If you’ll help me.” 

Foggy bodily perks up. He can never resist the opportunity to give to Matt. “Sure. Whaddya need, buddy?”

Matt shifts, shirt suddenly too tight over his chest. “Can we Neptune?” he says. “Some of the things I want to talk about…”

He trails off. He doesn't want Foggy to judge him. Not even for the things that deserve judgment. Being with Elektra, he made the world worse, but he can’t handle Foggy losing faith in him over it.

“Of course.” Foggy’s projecting a mix of emotions-- happiness, worry, but chiefly the sincere, urgent desire to help. “Whenever you want.” 

They’re all encouraging emotions, safe emotions, but Matt still hesitates. 

“Hey.” Foggy scoots closer. “You’ve already told me shit you thought I’d judge you for. Didn’t change my opinion of you. I doubt anything could.” He tentatively rests his hand on Matt’s, comforting and soft. “If it helps, Neptune for me,” he adds, surprising Matt.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to,” he protests. “That’s not what I meant.”

Foggy squeezes his hand. “I know,” he says. “You want to feel safe telling me tough stuff.” Matt wonders if it would upset Foggy if he turned his palm over, squeezed back. “I figure that’s easier if we’re equals, and that’s what I want anyway. So, Neptune for anything you want to talk to me about tonight.” He says it so breezily, like it’s an insignificant detail. Matt’s heart sticks in his chest. “What’s your planet?” Foggy says.

He breathes. “Neptune about…” He’s not as brave as Foggy, and his secrets are worse. “About truth, and Elektra. Thank you.”

Foggy reacts unusually to Elektra’s name: startlement melting into resignation, evaporating like snowflakes on a stove. “I’m just glad you trust me enough to do this,” Foggy says sincerely, and jumps off the edge of the desk. “Come. Sit. And for this Elektra conversation, how do you feel about me giving you a hug?”

Foggy had waited until he had to be honest to ask, worded it so the question was related to Neptune. “This is entrapment,” he says, and Foggy muffles a smile against his hand. “I’d like that, Fogs.”

“Good,” he says. “Me too.” The embers of want flicker, and Foggy lets them sit, doesn’t chase them away and doesn’t linger in them. 

They walk to the waiting room. Foggy moves one of the rickety chairs to face the other. Before sitting in it, he wraps his arms around Matt in a quick, tight embrace, then lets him go.

Matt wishes he hadn’t let go, but he has no right to ask that of Foggy. He drops into his own chair and begins. “Elektra wanted me to be honest, too,” he says, “But she didn’t give me a choice. You always have.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “From the beginning, you told me Mercury and Neptune had the same moral weight. So I don’t have to tell you my secrets. You made it so I could come to terms with them before bringing them to you.” He shuffles his feet out of their defensive posture. “I’ve never had anything like that before.”

He tells Foggy about the unsafety of the liquid truths. He talks about the grand theft auto, the exhilaration, the way Elektra always called him disgusting, her disaster, until he believed it, until he felt like he was at fault, felt like being anything other than hers was wrong. How he still wasn’t sure what he was. He tells Foggy more, things that are less and less related to truth, just because he wants Foggy to have them. Elektra taking the ring at Fogwell’s from him. How the worst part is that he’d wanted to marry her, run away with her, leave the only home he’d ever loved. Be a willing accomplice in his own erasure.

“Jeez. That’s so much.” Foggy chews on his lip, a movement he’s repeated so much over the last year that it’s become endearing to Matt instead of grating. “Obviously you know this, but that dynamic wasn't healthy, and I’m so glad you’re out of it,” he says. “And I don’t know if you need to hear it, but there’s nothing disgusting about you, Matt. You’re amazing.” The words ache dissonantly against Matt’s mind. Foggy leans forward, elbows propped against his knees. “Elektra tried to mess with your moral code, and the best she could manage was a few rich assholes got their cars jacked and their houses broken into. You’ve never stopped working for the little guy. Not once.”

His voice is so true, so admiring, so painful. Matt braces himself against it. “Thanks, Foggy,” he says.

His mouth vibrates, not quite a full smile. “You _are_ a bit of a disaster, though. But a lovable one.”

The words cut through his armor, dangerously close to the void, and Matt inhales with the force of them. “Not sure I should thank you for that one,” he teases.

“You’re welcome.” Foggy jokes back, then sobers. “Thank you for telling me about her. I know it can be tough, talking about someone who’s hurt you like that.” Truth, and warmth, but again, that curious pang of familiarity and resignation.

“Are you…” He’s unsure how to ask about what he’s picking up. “You seem unhappy about this conversation. Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Foggy says immediately. “It’s just… a lot of people tell me about their exes.” A twang of hurt, silenced when Foggy shakes his head again. “I have kind of a thing around it. But you telling me about your ex is different. I’m so glad you want me to know you.” He says it with such open affection that Matt, already unbalanced from the compliment that pierced through, flushes. “It’s a privilege, Matty.”

That nickname again, warming and hurting in equal measure. “Huh. Stick used to call me Matty.”

Foggy tilts his head. “Stick?”

The words freeze in his throat. Usually, he does a better job keeping his truths to one topic, but Foggy and his vulnerable warmth keep making his secrets flow out tonight.

“You don’t need to tell me," Foggy reminds Matt carefully. "This isn’t something under Neptune. But I do want to check on one thing. How do you feel about me calling you Matty?”

His pulse is anxious: he’s clearly worried he’s overstepped Matt’s boundaries, somehow. He’s always, always thinking of Matt first.

“I … I like it when you call me that,” he says. It hurts, but in the way of avoided compliments, a way that opens up space in him for better things. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Then I won’t, Matty.” His voice is so warm, and Matt wants so badly to bask in that warmth. 

He gives in. “Can I, uh.” He reaches out uncomfortably. “It would help center me.”

“Go ahead.”

They share another awkward, perfect hug. Afterwards, this time, he rests his hand on Foggy’s knee. It’s terrible, and selfish, and he thinks that Foggy might pull away, but he doesn’t, just sighs and presses his leg into him. “I want to tell you about Stick too,” Matt says.

“You don’t know how to tell people things,” Foggy finishes. “That’s fine. Like you said, I’m not Elektra, Matt. I’m not going to ask for anything you’re not comfortable giving.”

Truth. He breathes. “Neptune on the topic of Stick,” Matt says quietly. Stick told him silence was a form of strength. That giving away secrets was giving away power. That people would treat him like a circus freak if they knew the truth.

Stick’s been wrong about Foggy every time. He’s beginning to realize how much Stick was wrong about.

“Matt--”

“I’ve never told anyone about him,” he interrupts. “But if you want it, you’re the one I want to know first. You’ve more than earned a few explanations.”

He’s comfortable giving things to Foggy.

Foggy’s heartbeat is so strong, this close to Matt. “Thanks, Matt,” he whispers, and Matt doesn’t think he’s moved any closer, but he’s very conscious, suddenly, of the proximity of his breath.

He clears his throat and tilts his face away. “You’ve seen, ah. I react strongly to sensation, because everything’s turned all the way up for me.” It’s awkward to mention, particularly with his hand on Foggy’s knee, but there really isn’t anyone who understands better than Foggy. He’s not sure Elektra ever noticed it. “It used to be much worse. Stick helped.”

He talks about the constant training, the intensive meditation, how it finally held the world at bay at the cost of a bone-deep weariness. How Stick prepared him for a war that never came. “That’s where I learned the other martial arts.” 

When he gets to the ice cream wrappers, to Stick’s disappearance, Foggy’s fists are clenched. “That bastard,” Foggy grits.

Matt shrugs uncomfortably. “He wasn’t wrong. He left, I got stronger.”

“I can’t believe-- Matt, you _had_ to be strong just to survive what that guy did to you,” Foggy says, urgent and disbelieving. “He beat on you, taught you that your only value was being _useful_ to the cause,” there’s a little extra venom in his voice at that, “and the moment you showed simple human affection, he abandoned you.” He presses his lips together, muscles so tight they’re almost vibrating. “No wonder Elektra did such a number on you. Goddammit, Matt, I want to slug them all.”

“I don’t,” he says. “I want to forgive them. But I don’t know how.” It hangs heavily on him, and Neptune makes him honest about it. “Some days it feels like Elektra and Stick, they’re living in my head, Fogs. Like they took something from inside me and it’s still missing, and I’ll never get it back as long as they’re gone. I don’t know how to forgive that.”

“Then don’t,” Foggy says, baldly. “My law school ex really hurt me. I don’t talk to him. A high school sweetheart made me the other woman. Also a cut from my life. And I sure as hell haven’t forgiven my birth mother. Not everyone’s worth the constant emotional investment of forgiving, Matt.”

“Constant?”

“You’re never really done forgiving,” he says. “Whenever you think you are, you remember the details, and hurt drags you back down. Cutting people out is cleaner. You can stop reliving how they hurt you.”

It’s discomfiting to Matt, because it’s not how he sees forgiveness at all. Foggy is describing murky greys where the choice is starkly black and white to Matt. You forgive someone or you don’t, no half-measures. People weigh on you or you release them from your mind, the lightness he feels after confession. It’s why the void he can’t fully free himself of is so distressing. He’s committing a sin by holding onto it. God demands he forgive instead.

“I didn’t know you were adopted,” he says to distract himself.

“I’m not,” Foggy says, fiercely enough to take Matt aback, though he tries not to show it. “I live with my family. My dad’s my dad and my mom’s my mom.” 

He doesn’t want to make Foggy any more upset, but his curiosity overtakes him. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You mentioned your birth mother. Did I mishear?” 

Foggy tugs at the collar of his shirt. “I lived with her on and off as a kid,” he says finally. “She paid for my college, so we pretty much had to do what she said.” The chair creaks as he shifts. “I moved between households a lot. That's why with me, what you see is what you get: if I wanted friends, I had to make them quick.”

It’s a familiar feeling-- having to be efficient in your friendships, not knowing how long they’ll last. “Making friends at the orphanage was like that too,” he says.

“ _Orphanage_?”

The shock in Foggy’s voice makes him bristle, and this is why he doesn’t tell anyone, what was he _thinking_? “I was nine when my father died. The nuns at St. Augustine’s took care of me until I was an adult,” he says brusquely. “It’s not a big deal.”

Foggy breathes in. “Only you could say that,” he says. “I’m sorry, Matt.”

“No, _don’t_.” He leans away from the words. “It was a life experience I had. It shaped me. But it’s nothing to be sorry for.” His arms are tensing up. “I’m not the poor little blind orphan, I’m the summa cum laude Columbia graduate building a dream practice with my best friend. My life is good, and defined by what I have, Foggy, not what I’ve missed.”

Foggy’s pulse jumps. “I know this isn’t the part I should focus on, because you’re right, and I take the ‘sorry’ back. But… I’m your best friend?” His voice is small.

With a jolt of dismay, Matt realizes he hasn’t ever said it out loud. He’d thought it was assumed, obvious, that working so hard to keep them in each other’s orbits would get it across. You don’t talk about this kind of thing to friends you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep-- it hurts worse when they leave. But he wants to keep Foggy forever. 

He releases the tension in his arms. “Of course. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” he says softly, and squeezes his knee. “The only friend I’ve kept longer than a few years. “ A tendril of hair brushes against Foggy’s face; he resists tucking it behind his ear only with effort. “I know I’m not very good at… at friendship, and I’m sorry, but I meant it when I said you mattered. You matter more to me than anyone.”

Foggy’s eyes heat, moisten, but nothing falls from them. “Right back atcha, buddy,” he says, voice choked. “Couldn’t ask for a better best friend.”

Deep within Matt, a few more tender shoots take root.

  
  


* * *

The cut on his arm is shallow, but long enough that it’ll deepen into a real injury without medical intervention. He can stitch it himself, but Claire has a trained, steady hand and surgical thread that dissolves on its own. And he wants the excuse to check on her-- to make sure her hiding place is secure, that delivery people can bring her everything she needs.

Her needle hits a particularly sensitive spot, and the muscles of his forearm twitch. “How come you won’t take painkillers?” she says.

He remembers, just in time, not to shrug. “I don’t like them,” he says. “I feel the physiological changes. It’s uncomfortable. Leaves me off-balance, sometimes literally.”

“I wasn’t talking about the heavy stuff,” she says, still working in neat, tight stitches. “I meant basic painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Ibuprofen. They make you more uncomfortable than this?”

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “But if you really want to keep my mind off it, tell me about you.”

Much to his surprise, she does. “I’m working on my Master of Science in Nursing,” she says. “Finding the time for it has been hell, especially right now, but I want to get medical help to where people really need us. And no one takes an RN seriously on policy unless they’ve got a fancy degree.”

“So you’re a nurse,” he says.

She snips the excess thread. “I guess I could’ve led with that,” she says. “Yeah.” A bit of tension winds into her voice. “You’re not one of the assholes who assume doctors know better than we do?” 

“Of course not,” he says.

“Good.” He stifles a wince as she puts iodine on another of the wounds. “All right, more distraction so you stop making that face. I grew up in DC,” she says. “Moved here when I was seven. I still miss some things about it. Not how self-important everyone was, though.”

“In that case, stay away from the Upper East Side.” She doesn’t smile, which he suspects is a hard-won reflex that keeps her hands steady. “What do you miss?”

“Communities and old friends, mostly. And the way they don’t know what Mexican food is.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Now this you’ve got to explain to me.”

“A lot of Salvadorans came to live there during the civil war. Way more of us Salvis than other Latinos. And since white people can’t tell the difference? You can’t go two blocks without seeing a pupuseria pretending to be a Mexican restaurant.”

He chuckles. “Sounds… sounds about right.”

“Before you ask, Temple’s my dad’s last name,” she says, with the air of an explanation she’s tired of giving. “Most useful thing he ever gave us. You get a lot more interviews as a Temple than as an Hernandez.” She pats him briskly on the shoulder. “You’re all good, Mike. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says. He hadn’t actually known her last name, and wasn’t going to ask. She still doesn’t know his name at all. “Thank you, Claire.”

* * *

It’s November, and Foggy has come back from Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Matt keeps watch for the symptoms now that he knows them-- Foggy’s slowness, his hands losing their animation, strain replacing cheer in his voice. On the third day after their onset, Matt takes a long, late lunch.

By the time he returns, Karen’s already shrugged into her coat, and Foggy is beginning to slide papers into his briefcase. He’s so methodical, so careful, even when he’s suffering like this. “Happy Friendsgiving, Fogs,” he says softly, and sets the paper bag next to the stack of paperwork.

Foggy twists to look up at him. “It really that time already?”

“Yeah.” He rests a hand on his shoulder and smiles helplessly before remembering himself and where he is. He turns to Karen. “Want anything? It’s on me.”

She puts a hand on her hip. “I wouldn’t turn down that Cheesy Gordita Crunch.” He holds the box out to her and lets her sift for the right one. 

She unwraps it and leans forward. Over the carpet, rather than over her lap. 

“You pay for the cleanup if you get cheese sauce all over the carpet.” Foggy’s voice is teasing, a little brighter than it’s been in days. 

“Works for me. It’d cost less than getting this coat cleaned.” She stuffs a bite into her mouth with a squelching crunch. “Why Taco Bell, anyway?” she says, question muffled by bread and taco shell. “No budget for the full-service omelet station?”

“It’s, ah.” It’s too personal to share. The potatoes, and least of all, Foggy’s sadness right now.

“Inside joke,” Foggy says warmly, his own heart picking up.

“Mmgh.” She swallows. “Well, it’s a delicious one. Thanks, boss.”

“You’re welcome.” She’s been much better lately-- there were a couple of months when he felt like she’d never settle after her near-death experiences. “How are things over at the Post-Bulletin?”

“Oh, you know.” She waves vaguely. “Ben’s showing me the ropes. Giving me a few rookie stories to report.” It’s a lie, loud and clear, but Matt can’t really fault her for it. He understands wanting to deflect from your real work for the greater good.

“I’ve spent a lot of time in the records room,” she adds, muscles stretching against her teeth into a more honest smile. “Speaking of, I have to jet,” she says, buttoning the last few buttons of her coat. “It’s not going to sort itself. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

There are still two burritos and a taco left, but Foggy stopped eating twenty minutes ago. The faster tempo of his hands rewards Matt as they argue over what makes a judge good. (“Good judges understand people. Their records, their motivations. Some people need to be locked up for life, but most deserve a shot at redemption, and judges should reflect that in their decision-making.” “Judges should believe in our justice system, Matt! They should only give people a second chance if the facts reflect real change, not based on a gut check.”)

Once the leftovers are congealing, Foggy starts to put his things away. “This has been amazing, buddy. Thank you.” His heart is steady, sincere, and his voice radiates surprised warmth outward.

“Of course. Doesn’t have to be over yet, if you want. We could head to my place. Watch some Star Trek.” He’s not ready to give up this warmth and happiness yet, but he’s not really in the mood to head to a bar and watch Foggy try to pick someone up, or succeed at it.

“Can’t, I’ve got plans,” Foggy says, and twists his hands together. “Catching drinks with Marci.”

He feels his expression twist along with them. “ _Marci_?” 

“You’re not on Neptune right now, buddy.” Foggy’s voice has a warning in it, and his nails are digging into the backs of his hands. “If you’re gonna be a dick, you don’t have an excuse.”

He raises his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Wasn’t trying to be rude.” Not entirely, anyway, and not to Foggy. “I’m just surprised. She hurt you.”

“If I cut out everyone who hurt me, Matt, I wouldn't have any friends.” The resignation in Foggy's voice isn't _right_. Everyone likes Foggy-- hurtful people can't be his only option.

“Like I said, she had good reasons to dump me,” Foggy sounds uncomfortable but firm, and relaxes his hands where they’re digging in. “I don’t hold it against her. I’m glad she wants to be friends again.”

She doesn’t deserve such easy forgiveness. Anger strikes, hot and electric. “If they were such good reasons, why don’t you ever talk about them?” He’ll debunk them, one by one.

Foggy drops his arms to his sides. “I get that you don’t like her. But you don’t get to have an opinion on me being friends with my exes.” The tension in Foggy’s voice has become a snap. “You _turned down_ that right, Matt.”

Foggy stops, mouth moving, like he hadn’t entirely intended to say that. The sounds of the world rush in on Matt, beeping car horns and wailing babies and sneakers scraping asphalt. He needs to reground.

He didn’t _want_ to turn down that right.

“You okay, buddy?”

The sound draws him before fading from the air into Foggy’s familiar breath. He attunes to it, follows it with his own breath. In. Out. Lets the other noises go.

Foggy’s heartbeat is fast and worried. Which makes sense, Foggy hasn’t seen him do this since Elektra. He hasn’t _done_ this since Elektra.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just something Stick taught me.” He keeps his face impassive, his breathing even with Foggy’s.

Foggy rubs at his forehead guiltily anyway. “I’m sorry.” he sighs. “That was uncalled for. Look.” He tugs at his collar. “Marci’s important to me. She never _needs_ me for anything, and there aren’t many people I can say that about.” Matt emphatically does not wince. “So I’m glad she still wants me around.” His voice goes quiet, pleading. “Please be happy for me, Matt.”

He swallows. “I only ever want you to be happy.” Foggy gets to decide whether to forgive. He’s the one who was hurt, no matter how much Matt wants to protect him from further damage. “Happy Friendsgiving,” he says, and makes himself add the next part. “If you want, you can invite her next time.”

Foggy’s heart leaps, then smooths out into something happier. “Nah,” he says with a warmth that makes Matt’s breath hurt in his chest. “I like this being our thing.”

* * *

There’s something meditative about being stitched up. Lying still, focusing on how the borders of pain shift under the needle.

Being stitched up would be more meditative if he weren’t on a linoleum floor scented with grease and ant bait, but they won’t risk ruining Claire’s friend’s couch.

“You’re looking more martyred than usual,” she says conversationally, tying off the thread she’s stitched through his upper thigh. “New villain in town?”

He takes advantage of the moment’s respite to stretch out his shoulders, stiffened under the effort of staying still. “No,” he says. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what’s your deal?” she says, pressing the tissue forceps against the side of a second cut. “You haven’t cracked a joke in hours. I’m beginning to think you’re concussed.” 

He crosses his arms. “It’s nothing,” he says.

“If it’s bothering you this much, it’s not nothing.” Her voice is calm but unyielding. It’s a tone familiar from years of listening to the nuns, a tone meant for petulant children. “Don’t anger the woman pointing sharp objects at your flesh.” She finishes the suture and snips off more excess thread for emphasis.

“It’s personal, then.”

Her heartbeat picks up. “Now this I gotta know about.” She starts cleaning the next cut, a much shallower one that doesn’t really need medical care.

He sighs. But he can’t move without risking reinjury until she’s done, and she doesn’t know anyone else involved. She can’t make a mess out of his relationships. “My best friend reconnected with his ex,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a mistake. She wasn’t good to him.”

“Unfortunate.” She rips open a packet of gauze. “Doesn’t explain the martyred look. Which one of them are you jealous of?”

His jaw works. “Uh.”

“Can’t admit it to yourself, then?” She sounds almost disappointed, like she expected him to be fearless. It spurs him into speech.

“No, I… I don’t deserve to be jealous,” he says tiredly. “We gave it a try and something was missing. Didn’t know what, and that wasn’t fair to… to my friend. So I turned him down the next time.”

“I know that feeling.” Even her heartbeat is unfazed by the revelation, which makes him like her better. “Still. You sound pretty hung up for someone who turned him down.” She swabs the last cut.

“It was the right thing to do, not what I wanted.” He searches for an alternative topic. “How’s the MSN program going?”

She doesn’t move an inch, but her heartbeat isn't unfazed anymore. “Good, thanks,” she says, sounding pleased. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember. You were pretty out of it when I told you about it.”

He gives her a warm smile, maybe one warmed extra by his pain receptors. “You’re worth remembering.”

She bandages the cut and puts the needle away carefully, then shakes her head. “The good ones really are always gay or taken.”

“I’m, uh.” He’s not sure how to say this without sounding like he has an agenda. “Definitely not either of those. My friend was an exception, not the rule.”

“Pretty arrogant to assume I was talking about you.” But her muscles are bending into the first smile of the evening. “All right, you’re done, Mike. Now get out of here.”

He considers. He knows so much about her. She’s risking her life to help him without complaint. And she cares enough personally to notice when he’s upset, to ask about it.

“Matthew,” he corrects quietly. “My name is Matthew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anniversary reaction is a real, clinically studied thing-- if you feel bad on the anniversaries of bad events, you’re not alone. Overly personal, but I think it’s funny: I actually realized I was having anniversary reaction myself because I was proofreading the section I wrote about anniversary reaction, so, you’re extra definitely not alone.
> 
> Also: Claire’s family is from Cuba in the show. But I grew up around a lot of Salvadoran people and I’m tired of only seeing portrayals of them in violent gangs, so I wanted to fix that a little here. I hope no one’s too hurt that I changed that detail, and I’m by no means insinuating that different Latinx identities are interchangeable.


	7. Wounds

He makes it out of the abandoned building alive, and with the information he needs. Vladimir doesn’t. Matt drags himself to his apartment and pours a shot of Macallan for the pain. It unsteadies him, worse than painkillers, but at least the euphoria extinguishes the other sensations.

After the shot soaks in, he picks up his phone to see what he’s missed. 25 new messages.

“Matt, buddy, we’re fine. The explosion messed up the window of the restaurant, but Karen’s fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry. If you’re okay too, give me a call.

“Matty, I figure you’re too busy to check your messages, but please get back to me. I’m worried.”

“Matt, uh, don’t freak out, but it turns out I’ve got some glass in my side, and they’re making me go to Metro-General. It’s no big deal, it just…” A noise of inarticulate pain. “All right, maybe they had a point.”

The last one is simple. “Matt, where are you?”

He almost bolts straight to the hospital, even with the smell of blood and the weight of plaster thick against his scalp, his clothing. He’s desperate to examine Foggy's injuries, to soothe them. But Foggy can’t see him like this. The trail he’s following is too dangerous, he’s not going to put Foggy at risk by letting him glimpse it.

Metro-General Hospital releases Foggy the next morning. He’s far too injured to be smiling cheerfully here in the office, but after all the explosions, they must have needed the extra bed. Foggy smells of the plastic of IV lines and antiseptic and saline and blood. Foggy’s blood. Matt wants to be sick. But he has to smile and pretend everything’s fine.

“Devil, my shapely Irish ass,” Foggy grumbles. “Guy’s a nut.”

Matt suppresses a frown. It turned out a video had _also_ made it out of that encounter alive, one that painted him damningly as a terrorist, as someone who’d blow up four buildings and take innocents hostage. Foggy read about it in the paper. He’s been ranting about the masked man ever since.

“Knew it all along,” he says. “You don’t wear a Zorro mask if you’ve got nothing to hide.” Karen and Foggy bicker good-naturedly about whether Foggy could take the masked man down (with his fisticuffs? No. With a well-placed sharp word, absolutely.)

Finally, Matt has a chance to interject.

“What happened to Hell's Kitchen, to you and to Elena, to all the people that were hurt-- yeah, it pisses me off,” he says. “But this man shouldn't be tried and convicted in the press. We're lawyers. We know that's not how it's supposed to work.”

“So, uh, hypothetically,” Karen says, in a tone that’s definitely too excited to be hypothetical, “if this guy got caught and needed counsel, Nelson and Murdock would offer to defend him?”

Matt nods at the same moment Foggy says, “Hell no." Dismaying conviction suffuses the words. “I’ve got a hole in my side, and you want to Perry Mason the man responsible?”

“I just want to make sure the right person pays for what happened,” Matt says quietly.

The video clip finally makes it onto Foggy’s favorite news site around 3 PM, and Karen pulls her phone out to show Foggy. Matt monitors his vitals guiltily. His heart rate speeds-- stress, unhappiness-- and cortisol floods his bloodstream. Matt can't blame him. He’s heard people on the street discussing it, and the footage convincingly makes him out to be a ruthless killer. He wishes Foggy hadn’t seen it.

The rest of the day passes in relative quiet-- Foggy is working overtime to focus on background documents, but his attention keeps drifting from them, pain keeps elevating his heart rate. Matt should have just told him to go home, but Foggy tried so hard to put on a brave face. Matt couldn’t bear to peel it away.

A heartbeat, unpleasantly familiar, approaches the office. He forces his muscles to unclench. Foggy wants him to be happy Marci’s back in his life, so he will be.

He doesn’t tell Foggy she’s arriving, though, and he steps into the waiting room to greet her himself. She stops short when she sees him.

“Murdock,” she says in a tone of sharp indifference. “See you finally showed up.”

He inclines his head. “Marci.” It’s bleak and rainy this April evening, but as usual, she doesn’t have a hair out of place.

“Marci Stahl! On a weeknight, no less!” Foggy calls from the other room. Some of the pain is lifting from him. Matt stifles a surge of jealousy.

He’s going to be happy for Foggy.

“Foggy Bear!” she says as Foggy emerges, with far more enthusiasm than she’d spared for Matt. It’s accompanied by a flash of interest that leaves Matt’s throat dry. “Get your coat. We’re going drinking.”

Foggy pulls his neck back disbelievingly. “I’ve got a hole in my side, Marce.”

“Exactly!” she says, pumping a fist. “We’ve got to milk this for all the free drinks we can. Get your coat.”

He laughs, then winces and clutches at his side. Marci’s heartbeat goes guilty and concerned. “All right, all right. I know when I’m beat. Or skewered.” He disappears back into his office, and Matt can hear the methodical sweep of papers into briefcase. It’s slower than usual.

Matt doesn’t like her. But she’s important to Foggy, important enough that he feels better now than he has all day. And it’s obvious she cares. He’s going to try.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” he says, with as much awkward charm as he can muster up.

“You got off on the wrong foot,” she says brightly. “ _I_ was perfectly lovely.”

“You’re right.” He exerts his mouth into a smile. “I’m sorry. You reminded me of someone.”

She raises an eyebrow, as best he can tell from the movement of muscles in her face. “For seven months?”

He’s trying, he really is, but Marci isn’t making it easy. “She was memorable,” he says tightly.

She folds her arms. “Look, I don’t care what you think about me, Murdock,” she says. “I care about what Foggy thinks of you. He called you for hours from the hospital, drugged to the gills for that hole in his side. Did you know that?”

“I, uh.” He falters. “I did, yes.” If he could undo it, he would.

“That’s a surprise,” she drawls. There’s blood in the water, and she’s circling, teeth exposed. “I know you didn’t pick up, and I know you never said anything, because unlike you, I was _there_. I’ve been there. Where the hell have you been?”

He’s done trying. “Attorney-client privilege, I’m afraid,” he says with a bland smile. 

She taps her nails together. “I don’t know what your game is, Murdock, but I’m not going to let you play it with him. He deserves better than to be hurt by you again.”

“That much we can agree on,” he says, to a flicker of surprise. He hefts up his own briefcase and walks to the door. “Enjoy your drinks,” he says from the doorframe, and steps out without waiting for Foggy to re-emerge.

* * *

Marci’s insistent, justified anger dogs him during patrols for weeks. Eventually, it catches him. During a moment of distraction, a gunman throws him backwards through a convenience store window, slicing his thigh open. Not deep or wide enough to need stitches, but enough to hurt, and enough to want professional cleaning.

He hates it. He’s been burdening her so much lately. But he goes to Claire again.

“Have you considered investing in body armor?” He gasps as she tweezes a splinter of glass out of the wound. “Just a thought.”

“I don’t have enough clients to afford it. And it chafes. It would be a constant distraction during a fight.”

“Getting distracted is better than wasting all my surgical thread,” she says crossly. 

“Trust me,” he says. “If I had to wear kevlar all the time, I’d-- ah!-- use up a lot more.” He grins through the discomfort. “Besides, if I stopped getting injured, how could we keep meeting like this?”

A half-smile, impossibly rare while she’s working. “You know you can meet girls without traumatic injury, right? I can even recommend the good bars.”

“But where could I meet better girls?”

In lieu of responding, she pulls the bandage taut around the wound. “You’re all set. Have some water, it’ll help your blood pressure renormalize.” She stretches her arms above her head. “I’m gonna change out of these scrubs. I feel like I’ve had them on for years.”

Come to think of it, so does Matt. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you wearing street clothes,” he says.

“You haven’t,” she says mildly. “I mostly only wear them at home. Scrubs cut down on the catcalls.”

But she’s comfortable enough that she’s willing to change. Trusts him enough. “Thank you, Claire,” he says soberly.

Another one of those rare smiles. “Don’t get cocky. I just figure tee shirts and scrubs can’t sound that different.”

It’s a lie, but not one that he minds.

She slips off to change, and he makes himself sip at the water. He doesn’t want to touch it-- with the taste of blood in his mouth, it makes him think of Elektra. But he’s managed to drink it, and keep it down, by the time she re-emerges in something softer-sounding, knits rather than wovens.

She sits on one of the kitchen chairs. “So how’s it going between loverboy and his ex?” She sounds wryly amused, like she still can’t believe he has time for personal feelings in the middle of his work for the city. He doesn’t, really.

“Fine. They’re going out for drinks a lot.” So far, Foggy hasn’t taken her up on her interest. Hasn’t come to the office smelling like more than a hug, least not from her-- he’ll sometimes show up drenched in a stranger's musk and sweat. “He says nothing’s going to happen with her.”

“Do you believe it?”

The question he doesn’t really want to consider. “I don’t know,” he says. There are weeks they don’t see each other at all. But Foggy’s so kind, he’s forgiven her enough, that if she made a move, he might accept it. Might not even ask her to apologize for leaving. “He deserves so much better.”

“Why do you hate the idea of them making up? Besides the obvious. From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t think she was that bad.”

She’s right. He can't articulate anything terrible Marci’s done. But Foggy always seemed less himself around her, less happy in her arms than in Matt's company. And Matt had watched the breakup hollow Foggy, seen how he blamed himself. The ways Marci hurt Foggy linger in him, and Matt can’t forgive her for that. 

More poisonous thoughts trickle in. If he doesn’t protect the people he cares about, no one will. They’ll trust the wrong people. They'll get hurt. Foggy can’t go through that. Not like Matt did. Like Elise. Memories are a rising tide of sickness now, the level floods dangerously high. “Mercury,“ he says, holding out his hands, seeking out a single focus. The rumble of the dishwasher draws his attention, and he centers on it. His breathing begins to even out.

What’s going on with him lately? He hasn’t slipped this frequently in years.

When he opens his eyes again, finally, her posture is all confusion. “Mercury?”

He flushes, burning and queasy. Embarrassing. He’s comfortable enough with her, his emotions are unkempt enough, that he's misplacing them. “It’s, ah. In retrograde?”

“C’mon, Matt.” She shakes her head. “What was that about?”

Claire has no malice in her-- and this isn’t the strangest thing about him, not by far. But his lips still clamp unwillingly around the words, and it takes him several moments to pry them open. “It’s a… conversational tactic I use with Foggy."

He tells her about how Foggy modified his language for Matt. Mercury and Neptune, the system they invented together, making each question open and each choice weightless. 

“Huh. Like a safeword, but for truth.” She says it like it’s something he ought to recognize, and it makes him reluctant to ask.

“Safeword?” he says finally.

She pauses. “Well, that answers one question I had,” she says wryly. “Have to say I’m a little surprised.”

She’s not answering the question and he feels tension rising in him. “What?”

She settles back. “Hell. I guess we’re having this discussion today.” There’s faint trepidation in her voice, imperceptible to anyone else. “Safewords are words people pick to set boundaries.” Her tone is rehearsed, like she’s giving a speech or a lecture. This is something she’s explained before. “Useful in a lot of contexts, like your truth thing. But mostly used around kinky sex.”

“I… uh.” He might be blushing from embarrassment or confusion or discomfort or something else. Doesn’t know whether to pursue the subject or change it as quickly as possible. His curiosity narrowly wins out. “Used how?”

“Like…” She touches the dimple of her neck. “All the examples that come to mind are sexual. You okay with that?”

He shifts. “As long as it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“All right. Let’s say someone wants to be pinned down,” she says matter-of-factly, and the memories drown him. Elektra shoving him against a wall, trapping him. Him pinning her to the bed. 

“There are a lot of things that can go wrong,” she continues through the torrent, and he focuses hard on it, lets the memories pour by. “Lost circulation, feeling trapped, trauma triggers. You want to stop fast if one of them happens. So you both pick words you wouldn’t use by accident, and you share them before the pinning starts. When either of you says your word, the pinning stops. Everything stops.”

There’s an ache in his chest. He’s not sure whether it’s need or grief. 

_What is it you need that drives you to sin?_

It’s not an answer, but it’s a commonality. Other people want to wrestle each other into submission and it’s important enough to them to draw sharp, bold lines around.

“Is, uh. Is there a name for the pinning?” The flood of memories has left him seasick, lurching unsteady.

“Specifically? Not that I know of.” She studies him. “Why do you ask, Matt?”

Because he didn’t know you could draw lines around something like this. Because this might be kindling. Because he wants, desperately wants, the time he spent with Elektra, the things she did to him, to have a name.

Claire’s heart rate is accelerating. “This one of those things I should leave alone?”

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is careful. “Is the planets thing just for you and your friend,” she says, “or can I share it?”

It feels like a betrayal of the happy sound in Foggy’s voice. But he used Mercury by accident, around her, which means he trusts her enough. He should trust her enough. She’s like Foggy-- she’s helped him where no one else would. And everything feels unstable. He needs something solid to clutch onto right now. 

He’ll give her a chance. “You can use it.”

She nods. “What planet is this conversation about?” It’s not quite right, not the way Foggy would say it, and somehow that’s a relief.

“Neptune,” he says, and settles down into it.

“Seems like something really got to you,” she says. “You doing okay?”

“Not really,” he says. He’s still on alert, but calm is flowing over that alertness, smoothing its edges.

She inhales with surprise at the answer, or maybe at getting one at all, but doesn’t comment. He’s grateful for that. “Why not?”

Letting the words out hurts, but she's doing a good job of holding judgment at bay so far. “You raised some questions about my past.”

“Thought so.” A flash of amusement, which he doesn’t even have time to bristle at before it’s suppressed into sober, sincere listening. “Mind telling me the details?”

“Yes,” he says frankly. “But I want to try.”

He tells her everything. Foggy and the missing kindling, Brian and there being something. Elektra and the violence and the truths, and she touches a soothing hand to his arm. And he thinks about Roscoe Sweeney, how there were lines he couldn’t cross. By the end of that, he’s not just shaky, he’s trembling.

“Do you need a hug, Matt?” she says.

“No.” He’s tough. He can deal with this. “I’ll be fine.”

He hears the distinct sound of an eyeroll. “Do you _want_ a hug?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, and his face heats. He wouldn’t have said it without Neptune. But her response is a burst of relief, not mockery. She puts her arms around him, steadies him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Figuring this stuff out is confusing, especially when it’s mixed with something unhealthy.” She takes a breath. “You’re not wrong. There sure are some dynamics going on there. Giving and taking pain, giving up control and controlling.” More images, more memories, they fit too tightly. “But that kind of thing, you’ve got to understand what’s happening and you’ve got to consent. Sounds like the people you’ve been with didn’t get that.”

The memories jar away, he does bristle this time. “Foggy--”

“Other than him,” she amends quickly. “I can see why you like him, he sounds like a good guy. But what you did with him wasn’t kinky, so it wasn’t relevant.”

_Of course it’s relevant_ , he wants to snap, and jerks back from the idea like it’s burned him. Doesn’t even know why he thought the words. Because Claire’s right, what he did with Foggy is different, completely different.

_\--a guttural moan that makes Matt want to do it again, want to drag hot lines and bruised circles into Foggy’s skin and pin him to the bed--_

Oh God. His whole body is tensing to flee. To reject the memory, lock it deep.

_What is it you need that drives you to sin?_

But God called him to understand, to face his unspoken needs and wants, to confess them, not let them cower in darkness. He’s not going to get in the way of the truth.

He follows the thread; lets the thought fully unravel.

Wants to drag Foggy to the bed by his hair, the way Elektra let him. Wants to bite into Foggy’s neck until he’s brought the blood just under the surface with his teeth. Wants to hear the noises his fists make against Foggy’s skin. The noises Foggy makes when Matt hits him.

And a spark of something kindles under his skin.

He covers his face with both hands. _Oh God_. 

Part of him wants to _hurt_ Foggy, who can’t defend himself like Elektra did. Who’s been unfailingly kind to him, generous, who’s protected his secrets, who’s brought him back from the brink. He wants to _hurt_ his best friend. The person he cares about most in the world. 

Bile is in his throat, the threat of vomit again. He’s exactly the monster that Elektra wanted.

“I, I wanted it to, to be relevant,” he says. “I wanted to…” It’s still Neptune, but even then, he can’t describe those thoughts out loud. “I wanted that with him.”

“Oh.” Her voice is rich with understanding and sympathy she shouldn’t be giving him, not for this.

“My grandma used to say the Murdock boys have the Devil in them,” he says shakily. “She was right.”

“This isn’t the Devil in you, Matt,” she says with surprising sharpness, then her voice goes rehearsed again. “There’s nothing wrong with you for wanting what you want, so long as it’s something that…” She shakes her head. “I really am doing the whole 101 today. As long as it’s safe and sane, and what the other person wants too.”

He presses his thumb hard into his eyelid, and there’s an uptick in her heart rate. Foggy would never want this. No one good would want this.

“Wanting to hurt someone can’t be sane,” he says. “It’s a corruption of the soul.”

She shakes her head involuntarily. Squares her shoulders. “Then I guess I'm going to Hell,” she says. Her tone is calm and firm, but there’s a tremor in her voice, her heart beats nervousness.

His train of thought crashes to a halt. “ _You_?”

She tilts her head. “You’re really surprised?” she says. “Given everything I’ve been telling you?”

“Yes,” he says in perfect honesty. Elektra he could understand. Elektra loved the darkness, the competition, the mindless destruction that kept her from tedium. But Claire has none of their darkness in her. Claire has built her life around helping the needy and the underserved. Claire’s fights are all righteous ones.

Claire picks at her nails. “It’s something I like enough to have learned about,” she says to them. “That’s how I know what to teach you. Don’t you dare be an asshole about it.”

“I… I won’t,” he says, still reeling with the new information. “There’s nothing wrong with _you_ , Claire.” That much he’s sure of. She’s generous and giving and honest. “Other than your willingness to stitch men up on unsanitary linoleum.”

“Good,” she says, and softens. “Plenty of things are wrong with you, but this isn’t one of them. I mean it. It’s okay to want what you want.”

Truth. She really believes that.

He doesn’t understand. But he’s fervently, disconcertingly grateful. “Thanks, Claire,” he says.

She rests her hand on his shoulder, the first time she’s touched him without surgical gloves. The skin of her hand is surprisingly cool, though still warmer than the air around them.

“Also, I’m not willing to stitch up just any man on a linoleum floor,” she says, and there’s a skipped heartbeat. “Just the tall, dark, and violent ones.”

The tone of her voice… it’s a _flirtation._ After learning about his past, what he’s liked, who he’s liked, she’s flirting with him. Heat’s rising to his face, rising everywhere, and for the second time in his life he feels completely wrong-footed about someone’s reaction to him. “Uh.”

“You’re cute when you blush,” she says, and leaves it at that.

* * *

He’s utterly rattled in the office the next day.

He’s achy and sore, and the June heat is stifling in their inadequately air conditioned office, but he can deal with those. It's harder to deal with the images from yesterday. They're etched into him, he can’t sand them from his mind. And it’s hardest to face Foggy, who’s cheerfully summarizing the new information he’s tracked down on Fisk and on Owlsley.

A lot of new information. “Where did you get all this?” he asks.

Foggy pauses. “Marci’s been helping me.” He interlaces his fingers. “Copying files from Landman and Zack on the quiet.”

“You sure that’s a good idea, Fogs?” he says, mildly as he can. “People die when they get dragged into Fisk’s business. Vanessa Marianna almost did.”

‘Dragged’ is the wrong word to use, terribly wrong. 

\-- _to the bed._ _Pins him there_ _by both wrists. Lets his technique get messy, his grip slacken, so Foggy has a chance to escape if he wants to. He doesn’t. “Harder, Matt, please--”_

The daydream leaves him and he’s trembling with it. What’s _wrong_ with him?

“Marci knows the risks,” Foggy says, oblivious. “She could lose her job if anyone else finds out, and she still wants to help. Plus, Ben’s on the trail too. He and Karen have this big lead she won’t give me the details of.”

“Not until it pans out!” she calls back.

“But I think it’s something to do with the Man in the Mask. I know he’s been helping them.”

He’s still willing his adrenaline down when the mention of his alter ego spikes it again. He can’t resist poking at the injury, not when he deserves to feel it. “Still think he’s a terrorist?” he says teasingly. 

“Not sure what he is,” Foggy says. Truth. His adrenaline’s ticked up too, like everything Matt’s been feeling is written on his face. God, he hopes not. He _prays_ not. “But Karen’s right. Bringing down a building to kill innocent people isn’t his usual MO.” 

“I guess,” he says, hesitantly. Not wanting to disagree, not wanting to trust the sudden change of heart, not wanting Foggy to think the Devil is good when he’s _not_.

They’re both quiet for a moment before Foggy breaks the silence. “Gonna catch dinner with Marci again tonight,” he says.

It’s a safer topic, one today's thoughts are less likely to intrude on. He never thought he’d be grateful to talk about Marci. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Sure it’s not turning into a thing?” 

The feelings that swarm him are profoundly mixed. Foggy deserves better than Marci, Matt _hates_ the idea of Foggy forgiving her, even though he knows it’s unbiblical. But as far as he knows, Marci’s his only serious option: Foggy never seems to call any of his bar flings back. And Foggy should be far, far away from Matt.

“I’m sure. It’s just nice to spend time with her. She gets me.” 

His voice is light but pointed, like a fencing foil. Guilt lances through Matt-- he really hasn’t been as available to Foggy as usual, and he should make time. But he _can’t_ right now, not with Fisk threatening everything he cares about. Not with what’s happening in his head every time he thinks about Foggy. “I’m glad you’re getting to spend time with someone who matters to you,” he forces out. “I’ve got my own plans with, uh. What did you call her?”

“Hottie McBurnerphone.”

“Yeah. Her.” Hopefully he _doesn’t_ have plans with her tonight, he doesn’t need more injuries this year, but it’s the best excuse he has.

“Hey Matt,” Foggy says, voice still light. “Planet on Hottie McBurnerphone.” There’s a trace of irritation in it. 

_\--Foggy pushes him against the wall. “Who is she?” Foggy growls in his ear, frustrated. “Tell me already. Don’t keep these things from--”_

_Neptune,_ he almost says. Desperately wants to say it.

But Foggy needs to be protected from that part of his life and its dangers. Matt needs him to stay safe. “Mercury,” he says gently, and tries a smile to soften it. “Gotta have some secrets. She is beautiful, though,” he says with mild, suggestive smugness.

Foggy returns the smile, but it's dimmed, a moment delayed.

He wonders, irrationally, if Foggy can read his thoughts today, the way he read the injuries Matt was trying to hide last October. He wonders if Foggy’s disgusted, and why the idea makes him feel warm and cold at the same time. When Foggy claps him on the back, it echoes cavernously through his ribs.

* * *

The confusing, upsetting part is, he’s not lying about Claire being beautiful either.

Not just from what he can tell about her appearance. Matt’s drawn to sincere people, enough that he’s had to spend years drilling it in that sincere doesn’t mean truthful. He’s a good example of that. But Claire is both, and it’s refreshing. She’s blunt, straightforward. He knew all her opinions about him within a half hour of their meeting. It feels like a defense mechanism-- telling the truth before people make assumptions, preemptively shrugging off scorn. A defense mechanism he understands, even if he’s taken the opposite path. She and Foggy would like each other.

“You’re so tense that sticking you with this needle is gonna give you bruises,” she says bluntly. “I’ve seen you better off with broken ribs. What the hell is going on with you, Matt?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says.

“Then don’t,” she says, to his mild surprise. “But whatever it is, take care of it. You keep this up and you’re gonna get killed.”

She’s brilliant, she has strong, clear ideas about how to help the dispossessed. She’s already a skilled nurse: once she gets her degree, she’s going to be an administrative force of nature. She knows the things he wants and doesn’t hate him. They share a cautious distance, and after months of getting to know each other, the distance is closing. 

He’d never been interested in more than one person, before the night Elektra shattered champagne glasses and his sense of self. Never even considered another woman while they were together. But even though he’s completely hung up on Foggy, now Claire is dragging at his interest. He doesn’t know if it’s attraction, per se. But he can’t shake the horrible, inappropriate feeling that she’s a question he wants to answer with his skin, and that she’s looking back at him the same way.

But he’d never act on it. Never. She deserves far better too. “It’s nothing,” he says.

She crosses her arms. “Do I need to ask you for a planet again?”

“No,” he says, and shakes his head. “It really is nothing.”

* * *

He lets himself stay convinced of that until they take Claire. Until they take Claire because they want him.

Rage and exhilaration engulf him, and for the first time in months he feels calm and determined and _whole_. Their faces crunch like Roscoe Sweeney’s, louder under Claire’s crowbar.

She’s breathing hard and wounded and he settles her on the couch of his apartment. Gives her one of his shirts. He should have done this months ago, should have trusted her enough. 

The price she paid for his suspicion, for stitching him up in her friend’s home, was a blood price. Her face is a patchwork of heat and copper because of him. She deserves so much better than all of this. Better than him, and what he can offer her. 

But he offers what he can. When she asks for the details of his senses, he doesn’t hold back.

She chuckles. If he couldn’t sense her pain response, he would never have known it hurt. “If all I saw was fire, I’d probably want to hit people too."

He ducks his head ruefully. “I just wish I knew I was hitting the right ones.”

Instantaneous sweet musk and bright-hot heat, sharp and shocking. She shifts uncomfortably.

Only long practice suppresses his jump. This… he ought to be concerned. Could be a post-traumatic reaction. But he’s lived with enough of them to recognize their contours, and this feels different. She feels alive and present, and… and like Foggy did, wanting to know the man in the ring. All of his wires are crossing, guilt chars him, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to know more.

He strides towards her. “They know who you are now,” he says, low. “I’d like you to stay with me, just till I figure something out.” 

“That’s a hell of a way to get a girl to move in.” She’s still running warmer than she was, responding to the tone of his voice.

He slides next to her on the couch. “It worked, didn’t it?”

_What is it you need?_

He cups her face, careful to avoid the places the blood is closest to the surface, coiled in clotted pools. Careful to signal his intentions.

She inhales and her heart kicks up another notch. She nods.

He kisses her, soft and gentle, no tongue and no teeth, mindful of the split in her lip.

“I was wondering if you were ever gonna do that.” She sounds cautious. Not precisely happy, not precisely not.

The kiss isn’t what he needs. Not with this rage and adrenaline still coursing under his skin, not with the Devil in him. But Claire recognizes the Devil in him, and she needs more than this too. Maybe they can figure it out together, later.

* * *

Maybe what he's dreaming about really _is_ leaking through.

An increasing number of his interactions with Foggy aren’t normal. Foggy’s breath stuttering like he’s about to say something, then restarting. Adrenaline spiking along with it. And he’s been giving Matt the same kinds of concerned looks he did last September, even though it’s early in the year for it and Matt’s been doing a good job keeping his injuries under wraps. Better than before, with Claire’s help.

“I know you’re dealing with something.” Foggy’s speaking, so softly most people would find it inaudible. He jerks his head up.

Heartbeat and breathing are both fast, like Foggy’s been wounded. He’s standing at an acute angle. Not quite facing Matt. “I _know_ you,” Foggy continues, and squinches his eyes shut. “You can talk to me about anything, you know that, right?”

Matt’s adrenaline picks up. Foggy knows something’s wrong with Matt. Whatever the reason, whatever he’s noticing, it’s a nightmare if he learns what it means. Matt doesn’t want to talk to Foggy about this. He doesn’t want to _think_ about this.

“I do.” He reaches out to comfort him, touches his hand to the nearest part of his body--his waist, just above the hipbone. The warmth of it throws him back to their evening together, and he claws himself out of it before the thoughts are more than just memories. “Thank you, Fogs,” he says, heart pounding. “It’s nothing.”

Foggy nods, but he seems distant. Sad.

He’ll talk to Foggy later. They can figure this out too.


	8. Later

He should have known better. Later never comes for him. Figuring it out together is a delusion.

“You can’t kill Fisk, Matt!” Claire’s voice isn’t raised-- she never raises her voice. But urgency has broken through her calm control. 

“I have to stop him,” he says stubbornly. “Whatever it takes.” 

“That’s not what you believe in. What we believe in. Don’t turn into what you hate, Matt.” She’s saying it with fervent conviction, but like she already knows how he’s going to respond.

“The city needs me, Claire.”

“What about the other people in your life? Me, Foggy, Karen?”

“Don’t-” He bites back the urge, the _cruel_ urge to say _don’t put yourself in the same category as him._ Self-loathing fills him. Foggy saved his sanity once; Claire has saved his life and limbs again and again. She does deserve the same kind of consideration that Foggy gets, even if he doesn’t feel it.

He’s pretty sure he pulls the urge back too late, that she sees it on his face anyway, because there’s a flare of sudden, deep hurt. Then, worse, a resignation, the fight abruptly draining from her.

He tries to find the words to say something, to apologize. Nothing comes out.

She sighs. “Look,” she says. “This was a stupid idea. I’m too emotionally invested in your bad decision-making for… whatever the hell we’ve got going on.” She hooks a finger under the collar of her scrubs. “Between your work and your best friend, I’ve got to step back.”

Things with him and Claire, he’s not sure what they could have been, other than a testament to her great kindness and generosity. It’s right that her well of those dried up eventually. “I understand,” he says.

“I’m gonna get out of the city. Take some time off work.” Her lips brush his forehead. “At least I got to see you with your shirt off again. So, hey,” he suppresses a laugh at the tickle, “it's not all bad.”

He examines the heat map of her body as she walks towards the door. The small stutter in her breathing. He would’ve laughed it off, let her go, because she’s made it very clear she’s not interested in pursuing whatever was between them. But these are signs that she’s genuinely upset, and he doesn’t want that to be their last interaction.

“Claire,” he says. “Planet on what you’re feeling right now?”

She pauses contemplatively, halfway to the doorway, but doesn’t look back. “Neptune, I guess,” she says. Her voice is level, but it almost always is. There’s a suppression in it that rivals and mirrors his own. 

“You’re hurting,” he says gently. “Why?”

She flexes the fingers of her hand. “It feels like a waste,” she says. “We spent so long getting comfortable with each other. It felt like it was building to something, and now it’s just not, and I’m never gonna know what it was. I’m frustrated your obsession got in the way, Matt. I’m frustrated that I care." 

“I understand. It's frustrating for me too.” Even though Foggy’s hanging over everything, Matt likes Claire, respects her. He wants to understand her more-- because she’s _interesting_ , because he’s noticed her opening up to him and he values it, and because he feels like she’s got answers to the questions that have taken up residence in him. He wishes she weren’t walking away with those answers.

This doesn’t feel like enough of a goodbye. Not for Claire.

It’s a selfish idea and a split second decision, but he makes it. “Claire,” he says roughly. “I heard you when you said you didn’t want to invest more in this. I'm not trying to change your mind. It’s the right call.” He takes a deep breath. “But just because we're not going there doesn't mean we can't go somewhere, if you want.” 

She stills completely. Swivels back around. “Are you _propositioning_ me?” Her voice is disbelieving, but to his relief, more curious than enraged.

“A little,” he says awkwardly. “But only if, if it would give more to you than it took. Answer some of your questions. Foggy, he gave me that when I needed it. I wouldn’t want to offer any less.”

She exhales, long and hard. “Hell. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this.” She sets the bag down and draws her hand nervously to her neckline. “You know we couldn’t be serious about it, right? That it would be a one-time thing?”

Seems to be a refrain around him. “Once is more than I was expecting.”  
  


She nods, kicks the bag out of the way. Walks over to where he’s sitting on the bed. “All right, then. Let’s talk.” She sits next to him tentatively. 

He grazes his knuckles along her face. “Talk?” Even after the kiss last week, it still feels strange to touch her like this-- she keeps people at such a distance, with such bright lines, that touching her at all feels like he’s overstepping.

But he’s rewarded with the vibrations of that faint smile, with a heated inhale. Reassuring evidence that she’s actually interested-- they've mostly been in contact when he’s getting patched up or when she’s in mortal peril. Neither situation is good for clear signals. 

“Maybe talk in a minute,” she says, pivoting her knees onto the mattress to face him.

When he last kissed her, he couldn’t really get a sense of what it was like to kiss Claire Temple. She kisses almost the way she thinks-- honest, straightforward, fast, with a sharpness he hadn’t entirely expected of her.

She nips into his lip like she’s trying to provoke the same out of him, and after a moment, he follows suit. Deepens the kiss, laces it with teeth. She makes a happy noise and surges into him. 

“You’re good at that,” she says breathlessly, once they’ve pulled apart.

“I’ve had good teachers,” he demurs. Kissing well is about reading what the other person wants, and Claire’s signals are gratifyingly clear.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She pulls back, but leaves her legs draped across Matt’s lap. “Now we talk. You asked me back here for a reason. Why?”

He doesn’t have a clear answer. _I don’t want you to leave angry and regretful_ is his first thought, the truest one. But that's not what she means.

“I want to understand,” he says. “You’ve hinted about your preferences, but I haven’t wanted to pry. I’ve been curious.”

“Yeah, I figured that was part of it,” she says. “You’ve got some stuff there you haven’t worked out.”

“Got any theories?” he asks half-seriously.

“Not my job, Matt.” Her mouth quirks into a smile. “Though if I’m lucky, you were serious about hitting people because you enjoy it.”

She’s not joking; her body temperature is running warmer against his skin at the thought. He tries not to recoil, Neptune means no judgment. But he’s sure he at least flinches. 

She studies him. “Not really a thing for you, huh.”

“That part of my life is separate,” he says. “And I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it, who can’t fight back.”

He’s painfully, shamefully aware it’s not a ‘no.’ And that her body temperature wasn’t the only one that increased.

She doesn’t seem to realize. “Nothing that reminds you of the mask,” she says. “I get that.” Then she’s quiet, like she’s not sure what to do next.

Something about the subdued quiet itches at him. A scab with threads under it, irresistible to pick at. “Besides, haven’t you been hurt enough?”

“Remember how I told you not to be an asshole about what I like?” Her voice is low and irritated. “You’re getting dangerously close.”

“Sorry,” he says.

She sighs. Touches her hand to the dimple of her neck. “Being hurt enough, that’s part of why I want it,” she says. “I liked it before those bastards took me, and they don’t get to take that from me.” 

A familiar chord plays in him. His anger when Elektra’s memory stole Fogwell’s from him. The way Foggy returned Matt’s body to him after it had belonged to her. But what she wants is discordant. Violent.

He builds the courage in him to ask.

“What appeals to you? Why would you want that?”

She shrugs. “I’m an ER nurse, Matt. Adrenaline calms me down.” But she leans back, like she’s trying to think of something more specific, something to help him understand. “It makes me feel tough, like I can take anything. Like I’m so attractive my partner loses control around me. And the endorphins… mmmm.” She stretches out her shoulders. It’s a subconscious movement, like someone basking in the sun, and his breath catches. “Or sometimes it just feels right. I don’t know, Matt. Not everything has an explanation.”

“Huh.”

He's been _looking_ for an explanation. Why he’s been sinning, having these thoughts, these dreams. But that’s not what the priest asked him. The priest asked what he needed, not why.

Alien and riveting and excruciating, the ideas twist in him. Claire likes being hurt, he thinks carefully. Claire would be happy if he hurt her. It would let her reclaim something she valued, something someone else took from her.

He can monitor her reactions to be sure she likes it. He has years of training in how to efficiently deliver pain. He won't damage her by delivering what she wants.

He’s deeply, horribly afraid these are all just excuses to give in.

“If it’s not your thing, that’s okay, Matt.”

“It’s part of why you’re interested, right?” he says, a little harshly. “You see that in me?”

She sighs and rubs at her elbows. “Not gonna lie. Yeah, it’s part of the appeal. But it’s not the only thing I enjoy, and not the only thing I'd enjoy with you.”

Truth. He doesn’t have to do it. But with Foggy, everything was beautiful and soft and torturous and still something was missing the whole time. He doesn’t want the same for Claire. And…

And this is why he asked her back. On some level, he’s known what she wanted this whole time. He’s been focused on and fascinated with her reactions for months, and he couldn’t let the opportunity to learn more slip away.

He wants to know more.

“Since this is a one-time thing,” he says softly, “I’d rather you not leave it with regrets.” He brushes her hair back from her face.

“You sure?” Hopeful, nervous. She really wants this.

He chuckles miserably. “Not at all.”

“Then pick a safeword,” she says. “You should do it anyway, but if you’re doing something you’re not sure you’ll be comfortable with, it’s an absolute necessity.”

It feels wrong. It feels like a betrayal, taking the solar system he and Foggy navigated together and expanding it. But he couldn’t pick anything else. Nothing else would lodge in his mind right.

“Pluto,” he says, because it’s not really a planet.

“Like the dog?”

“The celestial body,” he says.

She snorts. “I’m just giving you shit, Matt. I figured. Mine’s ‘roses’. Because life isn’t all sunshine and roses.” He chuckles: it's very _her._

“One last question,” she says, and leans in for another nipping kiss. “Got any limits?” 

When he doesn't answer, she tilts her head.

“Has no one ever asked you that before?” 

He considers how to explain. That infantilization, the one-night stands. Elektra. He abandons the effort. “No.”

“It’s basic human respect. People should ask every time.” She sounds unsettled, but unsurprised. Human respect isn’t owed to the Devil, apparently. “For me… I don’t expect this of you, but I gotta say it. Call me spicy and we’re out,” she says. “I’m not a damn food.”

He can tell she’s serious about it, but… “People really _do_ that?”

She looks heavenward. “All the time," she sighs. “Other racialized shit too. It gets old.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says, and returns her gaze to the room she's in. “Other than that, I don’t like knives,” she says matter-of-factly, stuns him. “I don’t like blood. I see enough of both at work. I’m probably not going to want full-on penis in vagina sex. It’s… intimate for me.” And she doesn’t want that with Matt, especially not for a one time thing. Fair. “I also don’t want you ruining my stitches again, so don’t try anything too fancy. And if I’m going down on you, we’re using condoms.” He nods-- Brian hadn’t reacted much through them, but Brian wasn’t as sensitive as he was. He’s not willing to inflict the taste of latex on her, though. “What about you? Anything else you don’t like? Anything you _do_?”

Her tone on ‘do’ is anticipatory. There’s something specific she’s listening for. And he freezes, the void crushes in, because there’s a right answer and a wrong one, there are lines he can’t cross, blood sacrifices he can’t make--

“Hey. Hey, Matt. C’mere.” He comes back to himself to realize her arms have encircled him, squeezing reassurance through his muscle. It should be comforting, he tries to relax into it, but his body resists unwinding.

“That sure seemed like a limit,” she says gently. “What was that about?”

“Sometimes I don’t do well with ambiguous questions with a clear preferred answer.” 

“Weird for a lawyer. Don’t you get cross examined?”

“It hasn't affected me professionally." His shoulders are starting to settle. "This is only the second time it’s happened, and both times the context was intimate. Neptune helped last time.”

“Do you want it here? Would it help communicate?”

It would, he knows it, but it feels wrong enough in this context, without Foggy, that his body chokes on it, some of the tension leaches back in. “No,” he says.

“No problem," she says, and it flows back out. "And to be clear, what I was hoping to hear was, if you’re willing, I do like being held down. I love it when people leave marks on me, long as they don’t bleed, but nothing you can see above my scrubs. I like being slapped around a little, _if_ you can manage it without ruining my stitches again. None of them are dealbreakers, and I want to experiment. See what works for us.”

Claire likes this, he reminds himself, and makes himself consider her words, even though his stomach is rebelling. Pinning is easy, simple, hurts no one, and heat flares under his skin at the idea of pressing her against a wall, a bed. The idea borders the void, as close as it is to what he shared with Elektra, but it's different too. Less exhilarating spontaneity, more discussion and certainty. The contours of Claire, not Elektra. This doesn’t belong to Elektra either.

“The pinning down, I can definitely do,” he says, low. “The other part, we’ll see.” He thinks hard. “For limits, I don’t like anything that disrupts my hearing.”

“That I’d already guessed. But thanks. Anything else?”

He quirks up a smile. “Well, blindfolds are fine,” he says. She gives him the _Really?_ head tilt. More seriously, he adds, “Nothing infantilizing.” Nothing condescending, nothing that makes him glass, to be handled delicately or shattered in a fit of whimsy. Which reminds him... “I don’t like the sound of breaking glass.” 

“That’s a new one,” she says. “But sure.”

He clamps a hand to the back of his neck. None of these will be relevant, none of them are _useful_ limits. He wants to engage with Claire's suggestions, but they keep slipping uncomfortably from his mind. 

And then he thinks of Brian. How the whole evening had been awkward and uncomfortable until Brian said, “What would you like me to do to you?” and Matt’s self-consciousness fell away, stripped by the words and the gentle command behind them. 

“Could you, ah. “ He almost stalls out, because this feels strange, and awkward. “Could you take the lead on the violence? I’m not accustomed to, to hurting people who enjoy it, and I trust you to tell me what you’d like and when.”

“You want me to tell you when to hurt me.” Her tone isn't judgmental, but it is flatly surprised.

“Is that a problem?”

“Definitely not.” A spark of kindled interest drifts between them. “Just a surprise. Usually when someone hurts me, they prefer to be on the other end of the controlling.”

Controlling. His breath shallows and slows. “Yeah, well,” he says. “I’m not everyone.” 

She studies him, then smiles more broadly. “I can see that,” she says. “You’re an interesting guy, Matt. And yes, that’s a compliment. I like a new challenge.” She scoots closer, cups his face in a way that shallows his breath further, and tilts up for another kiss.

This time the quality of it is different. It's not an introduction, it's a newly-negotiated treaty. An invasion he's welcomed, kisses shorter than he'd attempt, body parts presented to his teeth and tongue as a suggestion, then ripped away. She's climbed all the way into his lap now, skin soothingly cool, nothing like Elektra's. He's forgotten what to do with a woman's body that isn't Elektra's.

For a moment, he's stuck again, but the way she moves helps free him. Elektra was impatient, but once she got where she wanted, she lingered until she'd wrung everything out of him. Claire's faster pace isn't natural to him. Her hands are already under the hem of his shirt, fingers sharp. 

He _can_ keep up, obviously, or make her adjust to his pace. The idea sends him to a familiar, competitive place. He grins and slides his hands under her scrub top, along the soft planes of her stomach, slowly enough that he knows she’s going to be impatient with him, then gently shapes her breast in his hand through the elastic stretch of the bra. She breathes shudderingly and pushes into it when he squeezes.

He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, feels it raise and harden. She’s still barely making a sound, though, so he slides the fabric of the scrub top up to her collarbone and bites the nipple through the bra with all the extra pressure and speed she wants.

There’s a lash of heat like a solar flare, and she whimpers, sharp and satisfying. It’s going to leave a mark, but _she likes marks_ , he reminds himself uneasily.

She’s fussing at the back of her bra. The remaining clasps are twisted together: they scrape unpleasantly as they part. His index finger traces the soft skin along the underside of her breast, and she sighs and leans into it, forcing the pressure heavier. He tries to maintain it, he takes his cues where they’re given, but the calluses of his fingertip must chafe under that much force, he can’t understand why this feels good.

He cups her other breast in his hand and bends to kiss it. Swirls his tongue just outside the areola, deliberately provoking her impatience again, before he presses his teeth in and scrapes. She gasps-- this isn’t something she loves, but she does like it. The gasp morphs into a groan when he catches the nipple between his teeth and clamps down, but even then it’s not exactly perfect for her. 

He's having trouble keeping the terms of the treaty. Working as quickly and firmly as she wants feels like it would break her, and even if she wants that, he’s not sure he can make himself do it. 

He flattens his other hand against her hipbones over the scrubs. “All right if these come off?” he says, because he can smell her under him, warm and slick and musky and wanting more.

_Okay if this comes all the way off?_ Foggy says, and he wrenches it from his mind. The worst thing, the least respectful thing, would be to confuse the two of them.

She nods and he tugs the pants down by the elastic. He presses the heel of his hand against the dampness of her underwear, and she makes a small, bitten-off noise. He trails his other hand down her sternum, sweat beading under his fingertips. She asked for more discomfort than this, and he has to try it sometime. If he’s lucky, he’ll get the reaction he wants. If he’s not, well…

He drags his nails across her stomach. “More on the surface than that,” she interrupts. “Scratching’s better when it stings.” Her voice goes dreamy. “I like most things better when they sting.”

An easy adjustment. He digs his nails in, but less far below the surface, _sting_ means superficial. She gasps raggedly, and heat flares in her again. It's an exploration, creating a map of heat and blood flow along the contours of her body.

Her heart races. “Pin me to the bed,” she demands.

He obeys. Presses the weight of his elbow and forearm above her collarbone, pushing her into the mattress, provoking another gasp and a squirm beneath him. “Bite me here.” She points to the hollow of her waist.

He scrapes his teeth along the curve. Almost no reaction. “Harder than that,” she says. “Like you’re trying to tear into me.”

It’s an unpleasant mental image, cannibalistic. But it gets across the kind of pressure she wants. He bites, a heavy, sucking bite that he’s sure is going to bruise, and she moans and presses her hips forward. More desire flares through her.

He settles back to admire her reactions, runs his hand along her face affectionately and she breathes in, arches back. The touch is so light, so different from her preferences, that he's surprised.

“I know this is weird,” she says, “but you remember where those men hit me?”

_Her face is a patchwork of bruises and heat._ “I’ll never forget it,” he says, heart heavy. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

“No, Matt.” She shakes her head, cheek rubbing against his palm. “That’s not what I meant. I want you to hit me there.”

He nearly pulls his hand back. That’s… awfully close to home, for both of them. “Are you sure?”

“Like I said, they don’t get to take anything from me,” she says with grim resolution. “If you’re comfortable with it. I get this in particular being scary for you.”

“Claire.” He smiles. “I’m the man without fear, remember?”

He’s afraid. He’s desperately afraid, so much so that his hand is shaking. But he’s going to trust her direction in this.

There’s a measuring silence he mostly hears when she’s examining him for stab wounds. “Why don’t we work up to it?” she says. “So you know you’re not really gonna hurt me. Want to see what it’s like from the other side? Getting hurt?”

He tunes into her heartbeat, into the heat map of her body, and her interest hasn't waned. This isn't just something she’s offering for his sake. 

He must look startled. “I like getting hurt a little better than hurting,” she says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have fun with both.” _Then I’m going to hell_. He remembers now. “And I had to be good at it for my old job. Holding people still so they don’t hurt themselves is important for EMTs.” 

“And now you use those skills to hurt people?”

“Only if they want it,” she says. “Do you want it, Matt?”

He inhales at the huskiness in her voice. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. He’s not sure of anything he’s trying tonight, not sure what he’s enjoyed so far. “I want to try.”

She nods and pushes his shoulders to the bed with both hands. Her technique isn't very effective-- she hasn’t immobilized his hands, it’s child’s play to get free-- but the pressure is pleasant and stretches out his pectoral muscles. He tries to relax into it. She bites at the junction of his neck and shoulder, hard enough that pain shoots through him. He and Elektra bit each other, but for flavor, for the triumph of having won. This is bruising, unpleasant and squirming under his skin. He shouldn’t let the reaction bleed out, but he’s pretty sure he frowns.

There’s another clinical silence. She tilts her head like he's transparent, like she's seeing through him. “You are _not_ into this, Matt.”

“No,” he admits.

“Why aren’t you safewording out?”

Why would he? “It’s not an emergency. I can deal with it.”

She releases his shoulders. “Sex isn’t dealing with things you don’t like, Matt.” She sounds, not disgusted, but sad, like it’s a sentiment she understands. “It’s finding what you like together. Will you practice using that word for me, Matt? We can’t keep going if you’re not gonna opt out of things you dislike.”

This isn’t the slightest bit dangerous, the lightest of his daily patrols is worse. It’s not something he needs to tap out on-- it’s something to get back up from, to keep going. “No thanks,” he says.

“Then I guess the evening’s done,” she says, and she sounds regretful, but she backs away from him on the bed, starts gathering together her scrubs. Her heart is beating concern.

His heart has slowed, his peripheries are all growing cold. The evening can't be done. He still hasn’t learned what he needs to, she still hasn’t gotten what she needed. This is wrong. The bruise is aching hot and unpleasant through the chill. 

Stick would be so ashamed of him for this.

“Can you tell me to do it?” he asks quietly. “Not ask.”

Another surprised inhale, an adrenaline spike. She sets the scrubs on the bed and turns back to face him. “Use your safeword when you’re uncomfortable,” she says firmly. “Not just when it’s an emergency.”

He doesn't like to do it. But he sifts through the sensations in his body, the flood of shame at having asked, the way it clashes against the relief of how she answered. The hot bruise squirming under his skin. He doesn't like this. He doesn't feel comfortable. He swallows. “Pluto.”

She scoots closer to him again, heedless of the pile of scrubs. “Hey,” she says, and circles an arm around his shoulders. “Good job.” A hand reaches unsurely to touch his hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says.

The hand stops. “Don't give me that shit.”

“Frustrated,” he says, distorting the mattress under his hands. “I want to get back to it, I don’t want to _think_ about this. I just don’t like the bruising.”

“We’ll get back to it once we’ve figured this out,” she says. “No bruises is fine, Matt. Other kinds of marks okay? You still okay getting hit?”

How can he know if he hasn’t tried? “I think so."

“All right. Keep an eye on…” she shakes her head. “Pay attention to it, and if anything makes you uncomfortable, I want you to safeword again. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” She kisses him again without a moment to breathe. Drags her fingernails across his back, quick and too heavy, leaving dull lines that sting across his awareness.

“I feel like you’re pretty much done with this side,” she says, and he privately agrees. “I’ll show you what it’s like to get hit, and then we can switch back. Sound good?”

He exhales. “Sure,” he says.

“All right,” she says. “Do you prefer it stingy or thuddy?”

She keeps expecting him to know. He hasn’t _tried_ any of this before, not of his own volition. But lines and bruises sting and ache across his body, and he doesn’t want any more of that. “Let’s try the one that isn’t stinging."

“All right.” She pushes off the bed with her hands, feet slapping against the concrete of the floor as she stands. “Let’s get you on your knees,” she says. “Easier for me to control that way.” 

He inhales with a sudden urgency. He’s not sure that he wants to be hit; but the _something_ is back, powerfully, at the idea of being on his knees. At her wanting to control him there. Her heartbeat fluctuates, the smells of attraction intensify. She can tell the effect this is having on him, it’s transparent to her, it’s embarrassing, the embarrassment isn’t helping. Blood is rising to his face, and he has to stifle a noise.

“You’re definitely an interesting guy, Matt,” she says, and touches her lip pensively. “Swear to me you’ll use your safeword, even if you’re just uncomfortable.”

He breathes in shakily. “I will.” It feels like a prayer as much as a promise.

She takes a breath, and her posture changes. Straighter, more confident. “Don’t be ashamed,” she says quietly. “Come here.”

He slides off the bed and is approaching her before he’s thought about it. Like a current's tugging at him. For the first time all evening, he’s completely sure he wants to be here, and he has no idea why.

She reaches over his shoulders, grips both of them tight in her hands. He doesn’t like that, it pulls him back out of the flow, but it’s what she wants. “Kneel for me,” she says.

The pain in his shoulder isolates from his consciousness. Everything that usually floods and churns through him-- the liquid truths, the poison memories, the dammed-off emotions-- stills. He sinks to his knees in a smooth movement, submerges beneath the surface of the mirrored pool. He feels unfocused, but not in a frightening way; he’s been reduced to physical sensation and want. Blood is flooding into his cock, and it’s both distant and more immediate than anything he’s ever felt.

He wants to stay here.

“Good,” she says, and winds the fingers of one hand into his hair. He gasps as she pulls, taut but firm. “I’m gonna hit you now,” she says, running a hand along his face with surprising delicacy. “Tell me whether that’s okay.”

“Yes,” he says, heated, floating in that open, vulnerable want.

The force of the strike resonates deeply through his jaw, far from the surface. His breath catches, and it’s confusing, he doesn’t know if he likes the sensations, but Claire does, she’s enjoying this, and her pleasure expands the want in him.

“Do you like that?” she asks breathlessly.

He’s not sure how to answer, and panic starts to rise, there’s another answer she wants, and--

“Okay, not a good question,” she says quickly. “Forget that. Would you rather I hit you again, we do something else, or you try hitting me this time? I’d be happy with all of those.”

Truth, he thinks abstractly. But the question stings, he squirms under it like the bruising. What he prefers doesn't matter. He can’t think about hitting Claire. Won’t.

“You’ve got to tell me, Matt.” Her voice is firm. “No secrets.”

It submerges him deeper into the present, into calm and desire. “The third,” he says harshly, stomach aching, needing to give this to her anyway. “I want to hit you.”

Surprised pleasure suffuses her body, then her voice, then all of him. “Then get up. We’re switching places.”

She pulls him to his feet, staggering back a step at the suddenness with which he rises. The action draws him from the drift he’s been in. She drops to her knees in front of him and he has to think about what he’s doing here. He has to.

“Hold your hand in my hair to stabilize my neck.” He twists his hand lightly into her hair and she gasps, flushes with anticipation. “Tell me if you want me to touch myself.”

She wants this so much she’s already having trouble keeping herself from it. He feels like something is trembling in him, this is too much, this is exactly what he wants, he _can’t_. “Yes,” he says, as if it’s coming from another person. “I’d like that.”

She slides a hand into her underwear, and the slick sounds between her legs grow louder, more rhythmic and the smell of musk deepens. “Hit me, Matt.”

He obediently raises a hand, moves it towards her face as if to hit her.

She flinches away from it, and his stomach lurches. He stops a few inches short of her face.

She moves her neck a few abortive centimeters. “Go ahead, Matt.” She smiles encouragingly. “It’s a reflex. Not a reflection of what I want.”

He draws his hand back and… touches her face with his fingertips. More of a pat than a slap, really.

She swats at his hand with her free one. “Harder, you wimp.” She stretches out, playful, lazy. “I want it to sting, remember?” 

His breath catches in his chest. He can tell she notices, because the muscles stretch wider around her eyes.

“Claire--”

She lifts a hand. “Hold on, I'm thinking.” He waits, and eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I’ve got an idea of something you might like, but I’m not sure how you’ll take it. Do you want me to explain, or--”

No more explanations, nothing to think about. “Just do it,” he says, hoarsely.

“All right.” She takes another breath. “What the hell is wrong with you, Matt?” Her voice is raised, scornful. “You hit like shit. You expect me to get off on that?”

The gasp feels like it’s dragged from him. She doesn’t mean it, not like Elektra did, but a part of her desire that had been unmoored and desperate has centered. Something in _him_ is anchoring, coalescing into need.

He _needs_ more of this. He doesn’t know how she knew it, but she’s right. Time slows underwater, his movements feel dense against its resistance. The air feels too substantial to hold in his lungs. The Devil is retreating, until all that’s left is his clarity and the skills Matt has only deployed in his service.

“When I say hit me,” she says, “I mean _hit me._ Count of three, Matt. One.”

He breathes the pool in. She wants this to sting. He can try to be good enough.

“Two.”

He calculates. How much force and pressure she prefers, the right angle of approach, the hand shape that suits her desires best. He curves his palm. 

“Three.”

She cries out as his hand connects with her face, Her eyelids close, the hand between her legs stops. He carefully narrows his focus to just her reactions, none of the actual sensations, none of the things the Devil can enjoy even though he howls and claws at Matt. He’d expected the hit to knock her off-balance, but it doesn’t. Heat ripples across the surface of her skin, and she’s luxuriating in it like it’s hers. 

He remembers the feeling of pleasure brightening his skin, what it felt like when Foggy resettled Matt’s pleasure in his own body, away from memories of Elektra. It had felt sacred then and this, too, bears the echoes of cathedrals.

“That’s more like it,” she says with satisfaction. “Very good, Matt.” The praise stings and bites its way through him. But she opens her eyes and tears overflow, slip down her face. His stomach drops.

“Are you okay?” he says urgently, and his consciousness rushes up from wherever it was trapped.

“I’m fine,” she says. Shaky, but truth. “This is catharsis. It’s helping me feel better. One more time, Matt.”

He knows she’s not lying, but he can’t make himself move. The warring feelings and thoughts are paralyzing him.

“Matt,” she says impatiently, and then pauses, as if recalibrating. “Disappointing as always. Can’t even do what he’s told, let alone well.”

His breathing steadies and smooths and he’s slipping back under. She smiles, satisfied, and the satisfaction pushes him deeper still. “That’s more like it. Do it again. Just that hard, on the other side. Don’t disappoint me this time.”

This time when he strikes her she doesn’t stop touching herself, arches into the blow. “I’m getting close. _Again_ , Matt.”

The sound is loud against her face, and her bloodstream is coursing need. "Get down here and finger me."

He sinks to his knees beside her and she guides his hand into her underwear, past her own hand. She’s hot and slick under his fingers, flatteringly so, and she moans inarticulately as he slides his fingers inside. He knew she wanted him, but it's one thing to hear it and smell it, another to feel it this intimately. 

She squirms, fingers working furiously between her legs, then makes a sharper sound as the angle changes. He re-angles his whole hand, crooks his fingers so he's more precisely hitting the place that provoked that sound, and that’s all it takes. She's quiet as she comes, eyes closed and a shuddering gasp and a spasming, squeezing pleasure he can feel down to his marrow.

She reaches out to cup his groin and he shifts away from the touch. “I don’t… I don’t want to right now,” he says. The sensations flooding his body, his mind, they're already overwhelming, already too much to process. He barely knows where he is.

“You okay?” She sounds worried.

“ _Very_ okay,” he says emphatically, because he is, he thinks. Or he was. “What were you doing? What was that?” Everything feels shaky and off and the air feels thin, his senses are slowly swirling together in and around him, but he’s desperate for the answer.

Her heart jumps in recognition. “Oh! Shit, sorry, the dynamic… I didn’t even…” Guilt spikes in her. “Come to the bed, Matt. I’ll explain in a bit.”

He relaxes and follows her. Once they’re in the bed, she wraps her arms around his waist tightly, a point of anchoring within the whirlpool of sensations. “You’re doing good, Matt,” she says softly. “Let’s hold each other for now, okay? Everything’s okay.”

“Everything’s okay,” he repeats, and threads his fingers through her hair. She tilts her head back into it.

They stay there for he doesn’t know how long, just breathing, her arms close around him, his hand in her hair. He feels the whirlpool slowing, the rapids calming around him, flowing, draining away, until eventually, he’s just wading in the shallows.

“You okay, Matt?”

He reaches out with his senses. All of them are separate, functional again. “I think so,” he says cautiously.

“Sorry, Matt. I screwed up,” she says, regret staining her voice. “BDSM is intense. It’s normal to emotionally drop at the end, and I should’ve warned you, talked about what you’d need afterwards. But since I was expecting to be the one getting hit, I didn’t think about it.” 

He’s not really sure what to say about that other than to agree. The tide of feelings had been... unexpected.

“No need to apologize,” he demurs. “But tell me. Besides the hitting, what you were doing with me.” _To me_ , he thinks, and his face burns. “What was that?”

“I was right, then? You liked it?”

He flushes hotter. “Uh.”

“Coming from you, that’s a strong endorsement,” she says, before finally taking pity on him. “Apparently you have a thing for being told what to do, Matt. And for being told you’re doing it badly.” Her smile at that is a little triumphant, a little sad. “If you need the words, you like subbing and humiliation play.”

He balks. It doesn’t feel like humiliation. He understands shame. It feels horrible, twisted and heavy. Nothing like being completely emptied of everything but purpose. “That doesn’t seem accurate.”

“That’s fine. Don’t use the words if you don’t like them.” She shrugs, almost dislodging his hand from her hair. “They’re just so you know what to learn about, or ask for.”

He thinks she’s going to tell him more about what she thinks, ask for follow-up, but she doesn’t. She just squeezes her arms around him again. “Thanks for this evening,” she says.

This time, he lets the memory of Foggy come, calls it up deliberately. “Did it help with your bad memories?” He removes his hand from her hair, lets that arm drape softly across her waist.

“Definitely.” She smiles, and it feels sincere. “I’m glad we did this.”

He breathes in raggedly, lungs burning with relief. If the lines he draws are sharp and bright enough, maybe he’s not the monster Elektra saw in him. Maybe even the Devil in him can heal, not just destroy. Just maybe.

“I’m glad too.” His lips feel crooked, a slope so precarious that the smile threatens to fall off.

She’s quiet for a moment, strokes the bedsheets, sweat and sebum absorbing into the silk. “I don’t think this would have worked anyway,” she says. “We’re…”

“Different,” he finishes, and she nods. There were some things that overlapped, he’s learned so much tonight about what people can like, about what _he_ likes, but the tempo, the substance, of what they wanted wasn’t the same.

Their incompatibility is a relief. He’d been uneasy that this would feel too much like Elektra. 

“I’m glad to know it, though,” she says. “It helps. Hey.” She pokes him, carefully away from any of his stitches. “Did _you_ get to figure some of your shit out?

Shame rises in him again. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I did.”

“Enough of that.” She kisses him firmly on the cheek. “This isn’t something to feel bad about.”

The idea aches, but he lets it drift around his mind anyway, that someone believes he shouldn’t feel bad for this. That she still feels safe around him, even though he hurt her. “Thank you, Claire,” he says sincerely. “I know I keep saying it, and it probably doesn't mean anything at this point, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She rolls out from under the covers. “But I should probably head out.” He nods, though he’s not sure it’s bright enough in the room for her to see it. 

She dresses as efficiently as she does everything else. “I'll always be there when you really need me to patch you up,” she says, tying off the drawstring of her pants. “I’ll be back at the end of August. Try not to need me until then.” 

On the way out, she pauses, like she wants to add something, but she shakes her head and walks out.

Eventually, sleep comes, heavy and dark.

* * *

He doesn’t need her before the end of August. But the second week of September, he does. 

He fought badly. He underestimated Fisk, he’s been off for weeks, and he barely escapes with his life. He’s grateful, later, that Fisk’s strength and Nobu’s accuracy kept him from morally compromising himself, but he’s not grateful when he passes out on the concrete of his floor.

Claire stitches him up and exits while he’s still unconscious. She sees him and he doesn’t sense her, an echo of their first evening together. It’s probably better that way. He only learns she was there when he wakes up to cold salt trailing down Foggy’s face.

Matt groans as all the pain attacks him at once. All the bruises, every cut, the stitches puncturing his skin. “I tried to call an ambulance,” Foggy’s familiar voice says from the armchair, and it would sound matter-of-fact if his voice weren’t so wire-thin. “You took a swing at me, told me to call that nurse instead. Shoulda expected it.” His legs are crossed, he’s leaning back in the chair, but the tension in his body belies the casual posture. “If you wouldn’t go to health services when you were dying, why would you go to a hospital?”

“Foggy, I’m sorry.”

“I hear you,” Foggy says, leaning forward, propping his elbows against his knees. “But I can’t be sure you’re being honest.” The sound of his eyes narrowing. “On the subject of vigilantism, which damn planet.”

“Neptune,” he says exhaustedly. Foggy always deserves Neptune.

He settles back against the chair and shades his eyes with his hand. “I don’t understand something, Matt,” he says, sounding almost as tired as Matt. “You could tell this random nurse the truth, but you couldn’t tell me. Why?”

His voice is even and level and there’s something burning in it, something acid. “I haven’t told anyone,” Matt says defensively. “She found me in the dumpster when I was unconscious. She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he says, and a little of the acid melts from his voice. But just a little. “She seemed nice.”

“She was. And she’s not random, Fogs, she’s a, she’s a friend.”

Foggy grabs both arms of the armchair and pulls himself to his feet. “Got a whole vigilante social life I don’t know about too. That shouldn’t be such a surprise. None of this should have been a surprise,” he says, beginning to pace. “I’ve seen you out of your mind violent before. It just hadn’t occurred to me you were taking it out on the whole city.”

“I’m not taking anything out,” he says, though he’s not sure it’s true. The mask came into being after his father, after Stick, after Elektra, after betrayal after betrayal that dissolved the whole world into rage. “People will get hurt if I don’t help them,” which he _is_ sure of.

He explains, desperately. He tells Foggy about Elise, how she’d been so good and so kind and taken care of everyone. How he needed someone to take care of her, and the system wouldn’t do it, even with him helping it along. Instead of making his case, though, it makes Foggy’s heartbeat go wide and horrified.

“I remember the girl. You told me about her-- the week we hooked up.”

His heart freezes in his chest. He’d forgotten.

“You said the day before was rough,” he says, slowly, in his putting-the-pieces-together way. “That you could use a win. Your knuckles hurt, because you hit the punching bag a little too hard.”

He laughs, a disjointed, upsetting sound, and shakes his head. “Some punching bag.” Not even asking Matt to confirm. “So you, what, went out and beat someone up, came back, and thought, oh, my hands hurt, better delegate the role of dick-toucher?”

Matt digs his elbows hard into the couch, his fingernails, leaving indents stretched into the leather. “If you’re going to ask me something like that,” he says, voice quivering, “man up and ask me for Neptune.”

“On the topic of dick-touch--”

“Neptune,” Matt says harshly, and hauls himself fully upright on the couch, ignoring the warning twinge across his chest. “You interrupted me in the bathroom. You reminded me the offer was open. I didn’t even remember you’d made it, and you came in to remind me exactly how desperately I wanted you.” His voice cracks on _desperately_ . “You were the only thing I’d wanted since Elektra left me. I was broken and that night put me back together. Would you feel better if I’d said no? Would that be better than this?”

Foggy stops pacing abruptly, pauses just a foot or two from Matt. “I don’t know.” His voice is small.

“Wow.”

“Because,” he continues, “my point is, it _was_ such a surprise that you were the Man in the Mask. When I figured it out, five months ago.”

The air is utterly still but for the ambient sounds of the city, of their bodies, and of Foggy’s heartbeat, steady and _true_.

“How?” he whispers. He’d been careful. He hadn’t let Foggy _near_ anything that would have put him in danger. 

Foggy shakes his head. “Saw the video footage. I obsessed over your fighting for most of a year, Matt, and you let me see it up close.” His voice is open and raw. “Did you really think I was going to forget the way you moved?”

Matt sucks in a breath.

“I kept thinking, surely he’ll tell me this week,” Foggy says heavily. “Surely this’ll be the week he realizes I’m worth trusting.” He spreads his hands entreatingly. “This week, he’ll remember I’ve been keeping his secrets for years. That I’ve been there for him through some really shitty circumstances.” His eyes are heating around the rims. “That I’ve held up the mitts while he fights and don’t think any less of him.” 

It feels like it’s scraping out Matt’s insides. Because everything he’s saying is true. It wasn’t about trust, he _trusts_ Foggy, it was about keeping Foggy safe. But it looks the same from the outside, looks like he didn’t trust Foggy with his secrets, and he doesn’t know how to explain it isn’t.

“Foggy, I--”

“I waited for months, Matt,” he says, voice harsh. “Months. I dropped as many hints as I could that I wasn’t going to judge you for being that man. And nothing.” He wipes his eyes viciously with the heels of his hands. “We built this whole system to help you be honest with me when it was hard. We _practiced_ it, _constantly._ And you still couldn’t do it.” He slumps, and somehow, that’s worse than yelling. “You said I mattered to you, Matt, and God help me, I believed you,” he says quietly. “I’m such a sucker.”

Foggy angles his feet towards the exit with finality. 

Matt tugs desperately at his shirt. “Wait, Foggy--”

He has no right, absolutely no right to touch Foggy, especially not the way he wants. But Foggy can’t leave. He _can’t_. Matt’s willpower dissolves into rivulets of panic. 

He pulls so hard it unbalances Foggy, Foggy stumbles forward, bracing one hand against the couch. He hears the shirt tear, he has to stop destroying Foggy’s clothing or at least stitch it up the way Foggy stitched him up, but this shirt is done for. Matt fists a handful of cloth over his sternum and hauls him downward.

It’s more a violent, bruising act than a kiss, all harsh biting and intensity, and Matt pours everything into it. Months of suppressed yearning, weeks of everything he’s wanted. For moments like cracked ice, Foggy doesn’t respond, but then he’s entirely there, gripping Matt hard in the divot of his shoulder, along the side of his neck, wresting control of the kiss from him.

Foggy’s mouth is salty and wet, teeth and tongue tangling like barbed wire. There’s no thought behind it at all, just desperation and heat and he can’t tell where his ends and Foggy’s begins. Adrenaline spikes through his blood, and he hooks his ankle behind Foggy’s upper calf and pulls, gently, so the knee gives, so that Foggy’s closer to his level.

It’s… it’s not like before. It’s so close. So close to perfect. It’s the spark the Devil brings out in him, settling under his skin. He tightens his arms around Foggy and crowds closer, starts to lose that sense of place again. All he’s missing is Foggy’s careful thoughtfulness, his consideration. His smiles. The things that make him Foggy.

There’s a wrenching sensation as Foggy pulls away. Matt tries to follow him back, chase the sensations, but Foggy shakes his head violently. “No, Matt,” he says. “ _No._ ” His voice and breathing are heavy with disgust. “Jesus. There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Real disgust, worse than Elektra, even, because at least with Elektra the disgust was affectionate. Tears add a sting to the constant soreness in his eyes. That sting settles under his skin too, along with a flood of shame, misery, and cold.

He’s found kindling. He burns for the way he and Foggy touched, and it repulses Foggy. 

He still wants it anyway. And Foggy’s still heading out the door.

“Don’t walk away from me.” It’s slipping into begging, he knows he’s begging, it’s humiliating, but Foggy can’t leave. Not now, everything’s all wrong and he can’t. “Foggy, it’s _September_.” 

Foggy freezes in the doorway. 

“Please,” Matt says quietly. His voice, his whole body, it’s all shaking.

_Don’t leave me with more to grieve this month._

Foggy paces in the doorway, each step heavy and furious and disgusted. “ _Fuck_.” But he doesn’t leave. He’s not leaving. He clenches his fists tight, so tight Matt feels the muscle fibers resonating with his own. 

Then he releases them. He’s not leaving.

“God _damn_ you, Matt.” He trudges back into the room and slams himself into the armchair, hard enough that it scrapes the floor. 

He’s not leaving. Matt can breathe.

Foggy's heartbeat is erratic, conflicted. After a moment, not looking at him, Foggy holds out his hand. Matt can’t understand why he’s reaching out, but he takes it. He’ll never reject affection from Foggy again.

“I’m going to need time and space,” Foggy says, and his voice is rough with effort. ”I need to process this shit, and I can't do it here. But we’re going to celebrate September this year again.” He squeezes Matt’s hand, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t abate. “I’m here for you, buddy. But I need that time, and I need you to let me know when you’re okay for me to take it. _Promise me_ , Matt.” His voice rises, strains.

“I promise.”

Foggy nods, kicks against the leg of the armchair. “Guess something was real between us, at least.”

It’s not a question, so Matt holds his hand and doesn’t tell him nothing has ever felt as real as Foggy.

\---

That night, he dreams. Foggy’s voice, thick and hazy with sleep. His heartbeat accelerating into exhilarated terror as Matt grins wide and sharp. As Matt’s teeth sink in, coppery and wet with blood.

_Jesus. There’s something seriously wrong with you._

He wakes up and the sheets are sticky and his pillow is damp with tears.

* * *

Foggy stays for several generous weeks that go by too quickly. He’s going out of his way to support, to banter, to offer affection. Only his heartbeat and his physical presence are wrong. 

There’s no easy warmth, no yearning. No anger, either, but Foggy’s entirely projecting focus, concentration, and a steady determination. Foggy would be a good friend if it killed him.

But his hands are too slow to touch Matt anymore. He doesn’t adjust his tie, doesn’t clap him on the shoulder, hug him when a case goes particularly well. Even Karen notices. She’s starting to shoot them weird glances when September dinner arrives.

It’s the first unadulterated affection he’s felt from Foggy for weeks. Foggy comes straight up this time, no uncertain pacing in front of Matt’s building. He’s smiling when Matt opens the door, a true, warm smile, and gives him a hug that blankets his arms.

He’s brought the dishes from last year, but with changes to mark a new year. Sweet corn tamales instead of chicken. Soba in a broth instead of a cold salad. Matt provides the Macallan’s, and he orders Taco Bell too. He doesn’t know if he and Foggy will be speaking in November, and he wants Foggy to have a memory to carry him through if he needs. He eats most of the pickled herring himself, letting his mouth sour and burn.

With the return of the affection, the chatter, he believes for the first time that Foggy really could come back to him. It still feels like enough of a goodbye that every minute drains from him like a drop of blood. He’s still so grateful for each one.

Foggy doesn’t ask anything, he’s all friendship and witticisms, but Matt can feel the question flowing through him.

“I’m not ready yet, Fogs,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” The world’s contours are still thin, dangerous sheets of black ice. Every thought is a chance to slip; the slightest provocation could crack through to the void.

“I get it, Matt,” he says, and touches him on the shoulder for the first time in weeks. “It’s okay.” It’s a soft, gentle touch, a tendril of warmth. Matt lets it twine around the shoots in his heart. He doesn’t know the next time Foggy will be willing to touch him.

His breath feels heavy and wet.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll never forget you doing this, and I, I hope you know, despite everything. I’d do the same for you.”

Foggy doesn’t reply, but his hand squeezes the shoulder more firmly. “I’m here as long as you need me,” he says. “Promise.”

As the weeks pass, Matt monitors his emotional state obsessively. His patrol injuries. How the world feels around him. And eventually, it starts to warm and thaw. He hates it. He’d do anything to go back to the void, to need Foggy here with him.

Matt taps him on the shoulder, once Karen’s left for the day. “It’s October now,” he says quietly.

Foggy breathes in deep, and it’s the sound of many things. Pain, surprise, intense relief. “You gonna be good?” he asks.

It’s a question Matt doesn’t have an answer to.

Foggy’s been his constant for years, his human relationship since Elektra left him. He radiates into the world when it’s frozen and bleak. Matt doesn’t know what it is to be good without Foggy anymore.

But that world has warmed again, and Foggy suffered to make that happen. Matt can’t keep him here forever, no matter how much he wants to.

“Yeah, Foggy,” he says quietly. “I’ll be fine. Take whatever time you need. I can manage our caseload.”

Foggy touches his hand, the gentle pressure another startlement after weeks of so little. “This isn’t forever." He sounds faded. “I’ll be back, soon as I’m ready. I’m just not okay right now.”

He doesn’t look at Matt. Matt doesn’t know whether to be grateful or not. All he knows is cold, resentful regret for every decision that brought him here.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he says. “Thank you for everything.”

He wonders if Foggy would let him hug him one last time.

He doesn’t try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it needs saying-- not everyone involved with BDSM someone who’s been through trauma. Not even disproportionately many people! Human sexuality is complicated.
> 
> Also, [I have a Tumblr](https://iheartallthethings.tumblr.com/) and I guess I should actually let more than three people know it exists.


	9. Planet

The chilly resentment settles on his skin for days. The world goes dull like pavement. But it doesn't entirely refreeze when Foggy leaves, not the way Matt expects it to. Instead, the sunshine of Foggy’s effort lingers.

Foggy kept Matt’s most dangerous secret for five months. Matt knows what that secret weighs— lies and omissions leaden in your stomach, heavy loneliness and anticipated loss. And even staggering from that, and from an unwanted kiss, Foggy stayed for Matt. It cost him so much, gained him nothing, and he did it anyway. 

No one else would have borne that for him. Stick, Elektra, they left without a trace or a second thought the moment Matt became inconvenient. He’s never even heard of something like this outside of scripture and fairy tales, someone sacrificing their own happiness so profoundly to protect someone else’s.

His happiness is _valuable_ to Foggy. Maybe even precious.

The proof of it overwhelms his defenses. Sunshine burrows into him, into the places he’s kept protected, coaxes growth out of the tender shoots, and against his efforts, they start to blossom. Start to grow over everything, filling cracks in his lungs and his marrow, until even Matt has to acknowledge them, to admit they exist before they suffocate him entirely.

He’s never been so profoundly unworthy of someone. He doesn’t think he could ever want someone else, not like this, where he’s dizzy and breathless with it but his feet are grounded. And he can’t hide from it anymore.

He doesn’t know what to do when Foggy comes back. If he comes back. He can ignore the flowering vines, hope they wither before he chokes on them. He’s managed it this long. Or he can let them grow around him, through him, and hope they grow into something Foggy can accept. He doesn’t know if it’s too late.

* * *

Matt eats the food whose flavor is painfully augmented. Foggy would want that. He drinks water and keeps it down. He hacks forward through the vines and they regrow behind him, sturdy and dense.

He hasn’t told Karen why Foggy left. She makes jokes about Matt pining until once, mid-joke, she turns her head before he has time to adjust his expression. Her heart rate increases. 

She stops joking. The invitations to go out drinking start. He refuses the first three, four, five before relenting. He can understand why Karen went into journalism; she’s _relentless_ in pursuit of her preferred outcome.

When she asks, he tells her it’s entirely his fault, what happened between them. 

“Figured you’d say that,” she says, propping her elbow on the bar. “But you’d say that no matter what.” 

He frowns. “It really is my fault, Karen.”

She leans into his personal space. “Then what happened? What did you do?” 

She’s not expecting an answer, not yet. She’s preparing to press the point like her invitations, grinding him down until he answers. 

He considers it. Stick told him to lie about everything. But so far, giving away secrets has gained him power, not relinquished it. The secrets of his vulnerability, of Elektra, of September, made Foggy stay in the face of Matt’s betrayal. 

Harmful truths, he’ll still keep to himself. But Foggy couldn’t harm anyone, and though his mind keeps wanting to shrug off the prospect of sharing it, this secret can’t harm Matt either. It’s unprofessional, but he lost any professionalism the moment he hired someone he got off on a murder charge. 

Besides, Foggy isn’t something to be ashamed of.

He picks at the layer of mistrust and quirks up a smile. “If I tell you, promise to keep it off the record? From anyone?”

“Yes,” she says, adrenaline spiking. Not from untruth— from the excitement of a story. She really is a natural reporter. And she really isn’t going to tell anyone.

His stomach roils, and he lets it. “All right.” _Neptune_ , he thinks, _on the subject of Foggy._

“I hid something from him our entire friendship, something significant. And no, Karen, I’m not telling you what,” he says to her tensed, excited posture. “He found out five months ago, and confronted me about it three weeks ago.”

It lulls her into a sympathetic crumple of facial muscle. A pat on his hand, more condescending than he likes. So he adds, because he’ll never have a better chance to be an asshole about this, “Then I kissed him.”

He’s never actually heard someone do a spit-take before. This is less of a spit and more of a dribble, but there’s definitely suspicious alcohol splattered all over the front of her blouse.

“You _what_?”

“I kissed him,” he says levelly. “It didn’t go well.”

“I’m sorry. What? Since when are you interested in _Foggy_?” There’s disappointment in her voice, which he’s relieved about. Her heart rate has been elevated lately around Matt, and he’s been trying to dissuade her. She has an innocence and vulnerability he’s not going to taint. And even if he were willing to, she’s not the warm, friendly presence he wants.

That doesn’t mean the answer to her question is easy. “Still off the record, right?”

“Reluctantly,” she says, teeth pressed between a smile and a grimace. “This is way juicier than I expected.”

He settles back. “Since my second year of law school.”

“Law school?” It’s lucky she didn’t take another drink. “That was like a _decade_ ago.” Three years, really, but it sometimes feels like a decade. “You never told him before now?”

“I, uh.” Came on to him, slept with him, rejected him, flirted with him uncontrollably. “It’s complicated. We have a, a, history.”

She puts a hand on her hip.

He raises his own hands, a gesture of warding. “I know you want more details, but these are his secrets too, Karen, and you work with us both.” He shakes his head. “Suffice to say I haven’t been clear.” 

She buries her face in the crook of her elbow. “Ughh, I _hate_ that you’re being so considerate of his feelings.” She drops the elbow and fumbles for her glass. “What are you gonna do now?”

“Not sure what I _can_ do,” he says. “Any thoughts?”

“Just talk to him, Matt.” She gestures with the glass. “You’ve been friends for years, right? You can work whatever this is out. Did he say when he was gonna be back?”

“He said he needed to process. I’m not going to push.”

“Then give him space if he needs it.” She sets the glass down with a sheepish clunk. “I’m not good at advice. Don’t come to me for advice.”

“I’m getting that,” he chuckles, and she elbows him.

“Just for that, drinks are on you tonight.”

* * *

In the end, Foggy is only away for two and a half weeks, until Ben’s funeral. He comes back crackling with energy and tension, and he and Matt chase leads all over the city— questioning Brett, tracing Marci’s papers to their sources. He tries to keep focused, trim the vines back, but it’s hard when their world is rage and grief and the sun’s warmth has returned.

The work pans out. Fisk finally gets put away. And this time he and Foggy go out drinking— Karen nods understanding when he asks her, sotto voce, if she can sit this one out.

“To a job well done.” Foggy clinks his glass to Matt’s. “Good to work with you again, buddy.” The crackling tension isn’t gone, but his heartbeat is steady.

“Likewise.” He takes a sip of Josie’s rotgut. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

Foggy laughs, but not his usual hearty laugh— a thin, brittle thing like paper mâché.

Matt lowers the glass to the table. “Are we okay, Foggy?”

His heartbeat unsteadies, twitches. “I’m doing better. If Ben hadn’t…” His voice trails off. “I might have taken another week or two. But we’ll be okay.”

Okay. They’ll be okay. He tries to make himself believe it. 

* * *

  
  


It’s a quiet day in the office. Karen’s out pursuing a lead, Matt’s reading through case files on the Dogs of Hell, Foggy’s going through background research and dictating the highlights for Matt. 

His hands stop rustling through the paper. “Hey Matt. Planet on your fingernails?”

The non-sequitur feels a little nostalgic. Like the early days of their relationship, where Foggy would call for a planet for the most frivolous reasons.

“Neptune,” he says easily.

“Why do you keep them so short? I used to think it was for reading Braille.”

“Mostly, because they bother me. With my senses, when they get dirty or catch on things, they’re painful. I don’t need the distraction. And long, dirty nails make me look like the blind guy who can’t even groom himself.”

Foggy nods. “So it’s nothing to do with Daredevil?”

Some of the ease dissipates. A leading question, then, Foggy wanting a specific _kind_ of answer. 

But still, this is Foggy, asking about this part of his life. Trying to understand. “I didn’t say that. It’s also practical— keeps my fingernails from ripping off while I punch, or cutting my palms up.”

Foggy digs his own fingernails into the palm of his hand, and his heart speeds. Anger, worry, doubt. “I hate that you have to think about that.”

Matt shrugs. “Helping others is worth it.”

* * *

Helping others has preoccupied him, lately. 

Matt became a lawyer to help the innocent, the indigent. To stand on the right side of the law, true justice rather than the technically correct. To reach those goals, he wears modesty and pleasantries, conceals the Devil underneath.

He wears the Devil’s guise, his rage, in the service of the city. The hurt he causes is a necessary evil: salvation for the desolate, terror for the predatory. Healing and hellfire colliding in one symbol.

But Claire’s ideas blur the point of collision, blur the sharp lines between his two identities. Matt Murdock is supposed to heal the wounded; the Devil is supposed to avenge them. But the Devil avenged Claire and gave her catharsis. ( _It’s not the Devil in you_ , Claire says in his memory.) Matt hurt Foggy by concealing the truth. 

_What is it you need that drives you to sin?_

Healing isn’t the Devil’s work. It’s God’s. He’s less and less sure that he understands what sin is.

* * *

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Foggy spreads his arms wide.

Matt steps through the doorway. “It’s not _that_ different from the last time I was here.” More boxes scattered around the apartment, more dust in the air, fewer books on the shelf. But the furniture is exactly where it was, even the shitty couch. Sitting on it fills him with more than one kind of profound regret.

“I grant you that. But this is the _last_ last time you’ll be here! It’s the high roller suite for me from now on.”

He smirks. “Landlord raised the rent, huh.”

“ _So_ high,” Foggy says. “Far beyond my starving artist means.”

“And, uh, what’s your art?”

“Conversation. Shanties,” he says, with an irrepressible smile. “And bartending. Pick your poison, Matt.”

“Got any arsenic?”

“Fresh out, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm. How about Macallan?”

“No whiskey of any kind. Liquor cabinet’s cleaned out of the good stuff. We’re pretty much limited to box wine, cheap beer, and, uh…” he halts. “Clubtails,” he says hesitantly.

Matt pauses too, unexpected memories flooding through him. Not poison, but not unequivocally pleasant either. “Why do you have Clubtails?”

“Brought it with me when we graduated. Haven’t touched it since, of course. I’m not...” His body temperature rises. “Not that kind of masochist.”

“Why would you bring it with you?” Foggy had let go of almost everything they’d had in their dorm together. Why keep something so vile?

“I don’t know, Matt.” Foggy shifts uncomfortably. “We bonded over it.” And Foggy hadn’t wanted to let go of that bond. After all these years, after everything Matt’s put him through.

“Sentimental of you,” he says, but he can _hear_ how tender it sounds. Foggy’s heart picks up speed.

“Guess so,” he says. “Drink?”

“Of those options?” He grins. “None.”

“Box wine it is.”

They sip at the cheap wine, which Matt enjoys more than he’ll admit. Good wine is complex, but sometimes, he just wants something sweet and simple. 

“Hey Matt,” Foggy says. “Planet on apartments?” The question is innocent, but the turbulence of his heartbeat sets Matt on edge.

“Neptune,” he says anyway.

“Why did you really pick your apartment? Was it the price, or was it the roof access?”

More Daredevil questions. He wishes he were surprised. “Both,” he says honestly. “I appreciate that it’s cheap, I like the layout, and I’m glad it’s uncarpeted. Helps keep the mold and dust mites down. But the roof access is useful. And the billboard. Nothing like neon to distract from the man climbing my fire escape.” 

“You’ve really been planning your vigilante double-life for a while, huh.” Subtle hurt rings in his tone, in his heartbeat.

“I didn’t plan any of it. Of the two of us, you’re the planner.” But he tilts his head up and tries to articulate it. To help Foggy understand, to reassure him that the questions aren’t necessary. “Throughout our city, people are screaming, constantly. Most of it’s petty. Arguments about groceries or college, easy to tune out. Doable to turn out,” he corrects, “some of them are _loud_.” He’s rewarded with a puff of amused air. “But the screaming from pain, from fear? I started this work because I couldn’t bear it, Fogs. I couldn’t leave people to suffer alone, knowing no one was coming to help them.”

“Hm.” It’s a skeptical noise. 

Again he has a flash of a daydream. Foggy, angrily pushing him against the wall to get more information out of him. But instead of leaving him shaken, it’s almost nice. Wistful.

Things have changed. The sun has returned, yes, but it’s a winter sun, heat reflecting starkly off the snow, warmth scattered in isolated pools. The fulcrum has rebalanced. Matt’s not sure what his actions, or their motivations, weigh to Foggy anymore.

* * *

Three blocks from work, Foggy pauses mid-banter. “You’re bleeding. Base of the skull.”

Matt presses his hand to the spot, and sure enough, it comes away bloody. “Ah. Could you…”

Foggy shakes his head and rummages for a tiny rectangle of squared plastic and recycled paper. Passes over the freed tissue.

Matt dabs the wound. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Don’t thank me for covering for you. It’s not like my life has been anything else for the last six months.” He stubs at the sidewalk. “Planet on that blood?” Suspicion enriches his voice, and even though Matt knows he deserves it, it stings.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah, Matt.”

“All right. Neptune.” The usual flood of calm washes over him, but it tastes of copper and sick. “A mugger hit a family out for Halloween. He was handier with a knife than I’d anticipated, that’s all. I didn’t recognize what he was high on. It was hard to gauge his reflexes.”

Foggy’s pulse speeds. “‘That’s all’ ? How can you be so calm? You could've gotten decapitated!”

He bites back wounded anger. Foggy has the right to be angry. 

“Calm is what Neptune does,” he says. “Remember? I don’t consider the consequences of what I tell you?”

“Right.” He tugs at his collar. “Sorry, Matt.”

“It’s fine.” He sighs. “I promise I’m trying to be safe, Fogs. But if I take a night off, people get hurt. You understand?”

He scuffs the sidewalk again. “I’m trying to,” he says, and that, at least, is true. “I don't wanna lose you.”

“You won't.”

* * *

The questions come more frequently, poisoned memories resurfacing along with them. Elektra questioned him all the time. He never thought Foggy would.

He requests planets all the time for everything. Matt’s favorite coffee, each new injury, every missed appointment. Matt always gives him Neptune. Foggy always deserves Neptune.

“Planet on the burner phone,” he says today.

“Neptune.”

Foggy twists his hands. “I get you wanting one for your alter ego. But why not put me in it?”

“Anyone I put in that phone is in danger if bad actors get hold of it. No matter what you believe, Foggy, you matter to me.” It comes out harsher than Matt fully intends. “I won’t endanger you like that.”

“I could get a burner phone too— you could put that number in. I could avoid using my name or yours. There are plenty of solutions, if you _really_ want me to be able to reach you on patrol.”

The skepticism and barely-buried hurt draw poison up through the vines. “Reach me and do what? You handy with a needle?”

“I could learn to be!” The hurt rises closer to the surface.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“Matt.”

“I don’t _want_ that for you,” he says, frustrated, nails marring his palm. “That’s why I didn’t tell you in the first place.”

“You don’t get to give me excuses for that.” Foggy’s voice is far sharper than Matt’s nails. “Not now.”

_It’s not an excuse_ , he wants to say.

He sighs instead. Lets his shoulders sink. “Okay, Fogs.”

Something’s _wrong_ with Neptune lately. Discomfort lives at the base of his skull, aching where the mugger’s knife sliced it.

* * *

He returns from drinks with Karen to a presence he never wanted to feel again.

“Hello, Matthew.”

Two words. Two innocuous words, in a moment, tear through years of barriers he’s put up. The void roars through his bloodstream, his arteries, all the way to his heart. 

“Elektra. What are you doing here?”

“I need your help.”

He misses most of her explanation. Some kind of apology (“it wasn’t fate— it was a choice. My choice.”) Some kind of playful mockery. He can’t tell the difference. Every word she says is identical, a dull, grinding pain. 

She offers him money that he refuses. Disorienting sensory flashes of her hover in parts of the room where she isn’t, but not the Elektra of today. The Elektra from four years ago, moving less efficiently, softer and less calculated.

He hustles the Elektra of today out of his home and for hours loses control of his senses. Footsteps aren’t dishwater, this time— they taste of pollen and smell like charred wiring. All he can hear is echoes upon echoes upon echoes of words he wishes he’d said and never did.

He grabs a shot of the Macallan he bought for September and downs it. He can deal with this.

* * *

He’s not dealing with this. 

The world is murky, strangled with smoke and heated with the magma of Elektra’s voice. He doesn’t remember how to find his way through it **.** “You look like shit,” Foggy says brusquely, as if to agree.

“Late night. Had a lot to drink,” he says quickly. Doesn’t want Foggy to ask for a planet right now. Talking about Elektra will break something. The void is too close, too cold, and he can’t risk it shattering their friendship, not while it’s so fragile already.

He’s technically not lying. After drinks with Karen and a few extra shots, he’s got a wrenching headache.

Blessedly, Foggy accepts it. “Need an aspirin?”

He doesn’t, and he doesn’t want one, but he won’t turn down a gift from Foggy. “That’d be great, buddy.” Nausea swims as he shifts; he wills it to subside.

Foggy returns with an aspirin. He’s about to swallow it dry when Foggy says,

“Dude! Don’t do that.” The headache stabs again. “Hold on.”

Matt obediently swallows the pill with the glass of water Foggy brings. He expects Foggy to retreat to work afterwards, but he doesn’t. He hovers, not alighting on any surface or task.

Matt sets down his stack of paperwork. “Can I help you?”

Whatever Foggy wants, it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Nearly all his tells are sounding at once— repeated collar tugs, shifting from foot to foot. “Got any plans this November?”

“No,” he says honestly. “Why, want an early Friendsgiving?” Foggy hasn’t seemed miserable or slow, not like other years, but he’s been distant, chillier. Matt wants to be there for him.

“Not quite,” Foggy says, and tugs at his collar again. “Will you come home with me for Thanksgiving?”

Given the state of their relationship, very little could have surprised Matt more. He nearly tilts his head in confusion, has to concentrate furiously on staying still to dam off the sloshing seasick. 

“Why now?” 

“Family won’t let go of me about it. They’ve heard a lot about you.” Before, Foggy would have flushed, but his skin stays flat and dry. “I don’t want their haranguing for the next five years, and they _will_ harangue me if I don’t bring you this time.” 

“I’d be happy to come if you want me there.” Matt says softly. 

Foggy doesn’t reply, and the silence is as damning as anything else. The sunlight has retreated from Matt, even as the shoots blossom towards it. He feels so cold.

“Then no,” he says. “If you can’t stand for me to be there—”

“I never said that either.” His voice buzzes harsh in Matt’s ears, and he winces. Presses his hands over them. “Things are weird right now, Matt,” Foggy says, firmly, but a little softer. “You still matter to me, and… and it would mean a lot if you’d be there.”

Matt exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Then I will, Foggy,” he says. “Gladly.”

Foggy taught him that things can be so beautifully clear. Nothing feels clear right now. 

* * *

Matt has limited experience with families— mostly, experience briefly meeting and impressing his girlfriends’ parents. So his expectations for this Thanksgiving were vague. A chance to meet the people who Foggy’s kindness, generosity, and amazing listening grew from.

Whatever he’d expected, though, wasn’t this. 

The room is crowded with nearly thirty people. Everyone’s friendly, but gratingly loud in Matt’s ears, speech patterns overlapping, one sentence beginning while another is halfway out. It’s a cadence he’s familiar with from debate, but not one he enjoys.

Every so often Foggy will interject into the din, and people will continue talking as though he hadn’t spoken at all. As though every word Foggy spoke weren’t precious.

He’s bristling, but he _does_ want to impress Foggy’s parents. So he does what he can within the bounds of politeness. He engages with conversational topics, then pivots pointedly to what Foggy’s trying to discuss; whenever Foggy speaks, Matt turns to him, smiles, occasionally squeezing out a smile in return. He wants Foggy to know that he, at least, notices Foggy. Wants to hear him. 

The meal is delicious, unsurprising from a family that makes a living selling food. Turkey perfectly roasted and moist, green beans crisp instead of mushy, Theo’s brisket falling-apart tender and deeply infused with wine, onion, and tomatoes. And the mashed potatoes, unlike the ones he ate during his difficulties, are delicious, rich with fresh butter and garlic, bright with parsley.

“Go easy on the stuffing, Foggy,” his aunt laughs. Of Foggy’s family, Matt likes her least— she’s been jabbing obliquely, passive-aggressively, at everyone tonight. It’s not even making her happy. But he knows how to shut down passive-aggression, and he won’t let the flash of hurt he feels from Foggy go unavenged.

“Why?” he says, widening his eyes. “I thought Theo did a fantastic job with it. Fresh rosemary. Is something wrong with it?”

“No, of course not,” she says uneasily. Someone nearby stifles a giggle.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand. You _said_ we shouldn’t eat the stuffing.” He lets reproach creep into his voice, adjusts his glasses over his nose. “What am I missing?”

“He… it…” She stumbles, as Matt had suspected she would, over the polite, innocent call to make her rudeness more explicit. “I’ve got to use the restroom.”

After she’s stalked off, the giggler steps forward. “That was amazing. Years I’ve been trying to shut her up, and you manage it your first night.” She extends a hand, then shakes her head. “I’m holding out my hand, and I’m Candace,” she says. “Foggy’s—”

“Sister,” he interjects with a smile, and shakes the proffered hand. “I remember. The one who likes high kicks, right?”

“Foggy, you asshole.” She punches him and he makes a muffled _oomph_ noise. “Yeah, I do taekwondo. Surprised he brought it up.”

“My father was a boxer.” The words come easier, now that he’s practiced them with Foggy. “I think he wanted to one-up me. What belt are you?”

“Second degree black belt,” she says, and launches into a story about her teacher. She’s the only interesting conversationalist he’s heard from today other than Foggy. Apparently, her teacher is a tiny, pot-bellied Korean man who used to be in the Korean army. “But he waved off anyone who asked him which one. He’s amazing. I think I’ll retire from the martial arts world when he does.”

“And leave it devoid of you both? That’s just cruel.”

She laughs. “I get why my brother doesn’t shut up about you now. I’m glad you exist.” It’s bizarrely sentimental, coming from a near-stranger, until she continues. “Some of us were worried that you were his imaginary friend.”

He chuckles. “I’d take quite the imagination.”

“I’ll say. Personally, I thought you were his boyfriend,” she says, and Matt’s heart stutters, along with, he distantly notes, Foggy’s. He focuses hard to hold onto his modest smile. “He seriously would not shut up. But I know better now. You’re way too good-looking for my big brother.”

She intends it flirtatiously ( _why_ is the Nelson pickup tactic to immediately call the blind man ‘good-looking’?) , but Foggy’s renewed flash of hurt stiffens his shoulders and his resolve. “You’re wrong about that,” he says, jiggling his glasses ostentatiously. “Can’t prove it, but I’ve got a sense for these things.” 

“Ugh,” she says in profound distaste. “You’re almost as bad as he is.” For all the tone of her voice, though, her heartbeat has jumped, like she’s seen something she didn’t expect.

* * *

Fork dings against glass, cutting through the din.

“It’s that time, when we all pretend to like each other long enough to make speeches,” Candace says. Scattered laughter. “But seriously, I’m grateful you’re all here.”

“To start… I’d like to propose a toast to Grandpa.” Next to him, Foggy’s nodding, but his arms are tensing, more acid is fizzing up from his stomach. 

Feelings war in Matt, politeness versus being there for Foggy. Even if Matt doesn’t want to intrude, Matt can’t let him do this alone. 

Tentatively, he reaches out and folds his hand over Foggy’s. Foggy jerks his head sideways to stare at Matt, then some tension melts from him. He nods, more discreetly this time.

“It’s our second year without Grandpa, and frankly, it sucks. No marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, no one will eat the black licorice Aunt Bea brought, and the pot roast is missing that bouquet of charcoal.”

A few more chuckles, uneasy this time. “Seriously, though.” Her voice goes misshapen. “I miss him. We all miss him, this doesn’t feel like a family gathering without him.” Matt squeezes Foggy’s hand tightly, a small movement Candace seems to notice. “Special guest notwithstanding,” she adds with a wry smile and a little too much emphasis on ‘special.’

“None taken,” he says, to more laughter. He really should correct the implication, or at least be bothered by it. He really should.

“To Grandpa.” She lifts a glass. “His kindness, and his terrible, terrible taste in food.”

“To Grandpa,” the group echoes.

She sits back down, and Matt reluctantly removes his hand from Foggy’s. “All right. Next victim?”

“I’ll go,” he says, surprising himself, and Foggy startles next to him. But he wants to say something. To show Foggy what he means to Matt. To make Foggy’s family acknowledge him. 

He stands. “First, I’m grateful I got to meet you all today.” There’s a chorus of _aww_ s. “But a two hour dinner isn’t much time to write a speech, so I’m afraid you’re stuck listening to me talk about Foggy.”

_Neptune_ , he tells himself. Foggy always deserves Neptune.

“Foggy is a…” He considers, and rejects, all the words Foggy hates. “A man whose gifts multiply through the world.” He runs his thumb along the stem of the glass. “His openness, his sincerity, inspire the same in others. In me,” he says, voice a little raw. “I’m grateful for every burden he trusts me enough to share. I’m grateful for the years he’s stuck around, even when I haven’t been the easiest friend. And I regret waiting until our second year to know him, because that’s one more year he could’ve been in my life. I’m grateful for you, Foggy.”

It’s not until his voice falters on ‘know him’ that he realizes undergrowth has found its way out of his lungs, vines and flowers twine around the words of his speech.

_Shit._

He tunes back in, listens to people’s reactions. A _lot_ of hearts are beating faster in confusion, except for Candace, whose heart is beating more and more amused, and Foggy, whose heart is…

He can’t think about that.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and sits back down.

After a moment’s pause, Theo says, “Candace was right. You _are_ as bad as Foggy.”

The ensuing laughter breaks the tension, though not Candace’s boundless amusement. People give speeches for another half hour, none of which Matt can hear over the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat, and then everything is droning murmurs and the clink of metal against ceramic.

After dinner, Foggy’s parents shoo him from the kitchen a few token times, but when he insists, deliberately soft-spoken, on helping with the dishes, they relent. They’re thoughtful about it, too— they bring him an apron, station him by the sink, and put him on washing duty, handing him a new plate each time he’s cleaned the last one. It obscurely reminds him of Foggy and the potatoes, and Matt’s feelings about Foggy’s parents thaw a little.

Once they’ve gotten through the stack of dishes, he wipes his hands aggressively on the apron. “I should be heading out.”

“No, stay!” Foggy’s mother protests. “There’s always room for one more. Beds are all full, but we’ve got an airbed or two tucked away.”

He’s about to demur again when Foggy pipes up. “I’ll take it,” he says, to Matt’s astonishment. “He can have my regular bed.”

He shakes his head with less conviction. “I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

“I insist, my friend,” he says. “We Nelsons are legendarily good hosts. The stuff of fairy tales.” The brightness in his voice is forced, but, like it was on the day they first spoke, no less genuine for it.

“Fairy tales, huh. Should I expect a pea under my mattress?” He doesn’t want to reject Foggy’s kindnesses, not ever again, but he’s not certain about being alone with Foggy right now. 

Now Foggy elbows him good-naturedly. “Shut up, princess. You’re staying, and that’s final.”

They dredge the linen closet and emerge with cotton sheets for the airbed, heavy with dust, texture worn softer with age but pilled in a few scratchy places. He bundles them in his arms to Foggy’s childhood bedroom.

After a few more good-night pleasantries, they’re alone. The house is cluttered with heartbeats weighted with sleep and tryptophan, but no one’s talking, the clatter of dishes is gone, it’s just him in this room with Foggy’s familiar sounds. Matt drops his bundle on Foggy’s bed. 

Foggy’s facial muscles bend crookedly. “They’re a lot, huh.”

Matt spreads his hands. “I’m not even sure why they invited me.” Dust blurs up into the air as they begin to unfold the pile of linens. “We’re both trained orators and neither of us could get a word in edgewise.”

“But they love you,” Foggy says, struggling with the corner of the fitted sheet. “Candace might love you a little too much. Help me out here, Matt?”

“Ha.” Matt heads to the opposite corner of the airbed and holds the sheet taut. “If Candace had any interest, she lost it thirty seconds into our first conversation.”

Foggy secures the last corner and steps back, dusting his hands off. “Lasted thirty whole seconds before striking out? An improvement!”

“That’s your sister you’re talking about.”

“Eh.” He thumps onto the bed, dangling his legs over the side. “She’d say the same about me.”

Matt sits beside him more gracefully, angling his body towards Foggy’s. “I really don’t mind taking the airbed,” he says, hesitant. “I don’t want to put you out.”

Foggy shakes his head. “Airbeds are uncomfortable for normal people. It’d be hell on your super-senses, and I’m not gonna do that to you just ‘cause you’re Catholic enough to bear it. Plus, it’s the least I could do after…” Face tilted towards the bedspread, he smiles, a wobbly, sincere thing. “It meant a lot, you helping me with my grandpa.”

“I’m glad I could.” He shuffles his feet. “I meant what I said earlier, about wanting to share your burdens. Thanks for inviting me.”

Foggy tilts back up at him. “Hey, Matt. Speaking of that toast.” His voice is warm, and tremorous, and Matt’s instantly paying more attention.

“Yeah?”

He reaches out an arm. Matt’s expecting one of those friendly claps on the back, but Foggy rests it on his shoulder, thumb tucked around the curve of his neck. The breath Matt draws in is noisy. It echoes against the plaster of the bedroom walls. 

He’s suddenly, dizzyingly certain that Foggy’s going to kiss him. Foggy’s heart is beating spectacularly fast, the room is rich with the smells of lavender and an attraction that never quite fades, the heat of his skin is so comforting and familiar. And he knows, with just as much certainty, that he’s not going to stop him. There’s no way, no possible way, he can make himself turn down Foggy’s affection again, even if he knows it’s the right thing to do. Even if he and Foggy want something different, incompatible.

Foggy shifts a little closer, and Matt’s breathing stops. Foggy does nothing else for a moment, just sits there, breathing. Then slowly, deliberately, he runs the side of his thumb along the tendon there. Everything that’s grown in Matt roots him in place, squeezes out a ragged breath at the pace of that intimate line. Foggy’s heart rate jumps. 

Foggy takes in another breath, the kind of breath he takes before saying something that matters. His voice is hushed when he speaks.

“Planet on the rest of that toast?”

The void yawns around him, and a small part of his mind whispers, _Pluto._

He stumbles off the bed and into a defensive stance, grief roaring around him, lanced with ice. Even this. Even when he _humiliated_ himself with honesty, told Foggy’s entire family how he felt… even that wasn’t something Foggy could trust without forcing him to prove it. 

“I meant every word, Foggy.” Sheet metal in an Antarctic winter— cold, hard, on the verge of snapping. “I wouldn’t lie about how I feel about you. I’d _never_ do that.” 

He has to get out. “You can have the bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep on, on the couch.” He can’t be near Foggy right now, knowing this is what he thinks of Matt. Acid is rising, the phantom taste of champagne at the back of his throat.

As he shuts the door too-hard behind him, he hears Foggy’s heart beat hurt and despair. He tries to listen to something else. Anything else.

* * *

It’s a slow, tortured week after that. Everything between them is quiet. 

Not like the weeks when Foggy held his secret close. He doesn’t pause, preparing for speech. He’s just quiet, withdrawn. Slower. Matt’s not sure if this is Friendsgiving slowness or something unique. Something he’s done to Foggy.

He wants to apologize, to take something back, but he doesn’t know what he could. Doesn’t feel like he should. So he retreats to something Foggy always enjoys. It’s miserable outside, frigid rain pelting the streets, and he’s pretty sure the tacos will chill and lose their crunch by the time he returns, but that won’t stop him.

“Kinda late for lunch, isn’t it?” Foggy says as Matt shrugs on his coat. He hasn’t turned away from his desk. “Planet on where you’re headed?”

Another sting of ice through his ribs. “Neptune,” he says curtly.

“Is this a man in the mask thing?”

“No.”

He thinks Foggy might be satisfied with that. No such luck. “Where are you going, then?”

“Taco Bell,” he says, voice dull like crushed glass. “It’s November, and you’re not doing great. I wanted to help.” He _wanted_ it to be a surprise.

Foggy’s emotional response is so jumbled even Matt can’t piece it apart. 

Finally, Foggy’s muscles strain upwards into a smile, but he still doesn’t turn around. “I really appreciate it, so much,” he says, heart beating truth. “You caring enough to do that is a big deal to me. But I don’t think spending a long time together is going to help either of us right now.”

Oh. 

Foggy doesn’t want his gifts anymore.

“Sure, Fogs,” he says, twisting his own face into a smile. He thinks. Not that it matters, Foggy won’t face him to see it.

“Next year.” Foggy’s voice is soft like quicksand. “We’ll be fine by then. And really, thank you.”

Only Foggy could make him feel like this, horribly missing someone who’s right there. Close, but never quite close enough to touch.

* * *

Matt’s resigned, not even surprised, when Foggy starts smelling like Marci again. It’s not worth raging about, or even asking about. Foggy knows he can tell. And it’s for the best. Foggy should be far away from Matt, even if he still deserves better than her.

Foggy addresses it anyway, after she drops by to take him to lunch. After he drapes his arm around her waist instead of keeping his usual friendly reserve. “I guess it kind of did become a thing,” Foggy says. He doesn’t seem especially happy about it. Not miserable, but weirdly resigned and quiet. 

Matt examines him. Endorphins, some good, many not. Slowed digestion, speedy heartbeat of a bad night’s sleep.

“Long as you’re happy, Fogs.”

He doesn’t reply.

* * *

What Stick and Elektra stole, the void replaced, freezing through him and sparking rage at intervals. Under Foggy’s affection, it had grown smaller. Now it extends through him, outwards, swallowing his friendship with Foggy.

He doesn’t know what he could have done differently. Where he made a mistake. He’s tried so hard, so much harder than he’s tried for anyone else. But they’re distant now, ships on opposite ends of a solar system. 

His missing parts haven’t returned with Elektra. He has to take them back, stop the void’s expansion before it absorbs everything. Free the parts that have been trapped in Roscoe Sweeney’s parlor ever since she left him. Forgive her for taking them. 

He just doesn’t know how to do it.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Foggy says. “That was the bank.”

Matt presses the bridge of his nose. Of course that was the bank. Of course Elektra gave him money against his express wishes. He should have expected it. Elektra always gives him what he needs, whether or not he wants it. Thoughtless, intolerable generosity, calculated to put him in her debt.

He draws sharp, bold lines between them and Elektra melts through them like they’re made of sand.

“Do me a favor,” he says. “Don’t spend any of it.”

He doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening, how Elektra singed herself back into his skin, how the smoke is going to his head and making it hard to breathe, to _think_. How he needs Foggy’s help to put space between him and her demands.

But the muscles around Foggy’s eyes narrow, and Matt’s heart constricts with them. The narrowing is familiar. He knows the next thing Foggy is going to say, barely outside of Karen's earshot.

“Planet on the money.”

He knew it. He _knew_ it, and the knowledge fuses into something solid inside him, something he uses to haul himself upright. 

Enough. He’s been patient. He’s been understanding. He can’t keep moving forward through this suffocating suspicion, this double-checking of every detail, whether he’s cagey, asking for help, or offering the deepest truths growing in his heart. 

Instead of Mercury or Neptune, he says:

“No.”

Foggy goes painfully still. His cortisol and adrenaline levels spike. “Karen, could you give us a minute?” He sounds calm, but the kind of calm that people describe as deadly. The eye before the hurricane rips you apart.

When the door closes behind her, Foggy steeples his hands. “Matt, whichever of them you pick, there’s no judgment,” he says with that same dangerous calm. “That’s the rule. Do you feel like you deserve judgment so bad you won’t even pick one? Or do you trust me so little you think I’d judge you anyway?”

His mouth stays pressed shut.

“Planet on the subject of—”

“I’m done with planets, Foggy,” he says, carpet deadening the echo of his words. “You ask for one every time now. Not to give me space— because you don’t trust me. Would you have taken ‘Mercury’ well just now?”

“Yeah, Matt. That’s how it works—”

“No, that’s _bullshit_ .” The fight is sparking under his skin, but it’s pure right now. Not violence meant to harm, but nothing held back. “Every time you asked me about Daredevil, I told you Mercury. That was supposed to be enough, but you treated it like a betrayal. And I thought I couldn’t blame you. I held back something major, you had a right to be upset. But I can, I _can_ blame you.”

Anger blazes around him, hot and uncontrolled, but he keeps his voice low. “I trusted you with a lifetime of secrets. My fighting. My senses. Elektra. The orphanage. Stick. I hid _one_ thing from you, Foggy, _one_. Yeah, it was big, but I followed your rules, and I still wasn’t worth trusting.”

Foggy’s trying to say something, protest maybe, and Matt cuts him off. “Mercury and Neptune never really had equal weights. You lied to me. You made all this noise about how you’re not like Elektra, you’d never ask for truths I wasn’t comfortable sharing. But that’s exactly what you keep doing.” 

The vines are smoldering in his mouth, ash suffocating under his skin. “Even so, I’ve tried so hard to fix things between us. I’ve been open about everything you’ve asked for months. I’ve broken myself open being honest with you, and you still can’t trust me. So I’m done pretending you deserve my secrets anymore. I’m _done_ with it.”

He picks up his coat on the way out. Leaves his briefcase. He’s done the right thing— told the truth. Drawn sharp, bold lines between him and Foggy. 

He wants to vomit into the sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thanks to [pogopop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogopop/pseuds/pogopop) and generally to the MattFoggy Discord for some great ideas of what Foggy asks for Neptune on (the fingernails thing was really a team effort). Thanks to [Upupanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway) for workshopping this intensively until 3 AM so I could write my way out of a plot hole I dug myself into. Thanks to [94bottlesofsnapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/94bottlesofsnapple/) for the beta, the kind words, and the joke. And as always, thanks to templewulf for his patient support and cheerleading.


	10. Void

Matt expected Foggy to leave again, after that, but he doesn’t.

It might be easier if he had. He’s vibrating with stress and pain, hiding it so much worse than before September. Even Karen’s picking up on it. But he’s wearing that brave face again, and Matt still can’t bear to unmask him.

Foggy makes playful comments. Incisive commentary. Funny jokes. Each word he speaks is hollow like a scream.

He stops asking for planets, though, and Matt tries to tell himself this is what he wanted.

“You can leave again if you need to,” he says once.

Foggy’s hands, already slow, stop entirely. “Is that what you want, Matt?”

“Might be best.”

Foggy’s heart flickers, clenches. Matt doesn’t know how to parse what he’s feeling. “Planet on me going?” Foggy says.

“Still no.” He sighs. “It’s your decision, Fogs.” 

He doesn’t want Foggy to leave. But he’ll accept it to end his pain.

He’s not clear on how to feel when Foggy stays.

* * *

When Matt climbs into the car, Elektra is already inside. He nearly climbs back out.

“You can't just send a car for me whenever you decide—”

“Get undressed.” The command in her voice freezes him, concerns slip from his shoulders. But he recognizes it now. What he responded to in Brian, in Claire, but undelineated, blurred by smoke and wavering heat.

_When you’re playing with power exchange, you need to understand what’s going on and consent. Pluto_ , his mind protests.

“What?” he says instead.

“The invite says 7:00 p.m. sharp.”

The void roars around him, paralyzing, trapping him in this familiar flow. “No, I, I can't do this right now. I got more important—”

“We've been working so hard. I thought we'd get boozy and let loose for a night.” Another dismissal. _Pluto_ , his mind whispers again, but magma disintegrates him, melting his objections to obsidian. “Macallan still your drink?”

His insides are a vortex, cold void sweeping against boiling rage. He fought for years to take that drink back from her, leaned heavily on his friendship with Foggy to do it. She doesn’t get to share it anymore.

“It isn’t, no,” he says. “My tastes have changed.” When they get to the heist— _if_ they get to the heist— he’s going to order a screwdriver.

Another flash of four-years-ago Elektra, her hands on the steering wheel, laughing.

Current-day Elektra lifts her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “All right. One last rule for the evening: no sex.”

Revulsion and disbelief invade him with a soothing intensity. “My _God_ , you have a pair on you. I have zero interest in starting anything up with you ever again.”

“Of course you do.”

She doesn’t know him. “What makes you think every man you meet wants to sleep with you?”

“Because so far, they have.” Truth, and he feels a flare of pity, surprising in its heat. Matt experienced it, everyone making passes at him. It was intrusive, maybe the worst period of his life.

A period Elektra brought on him. He shakes his head. He has to stop getting distracted.

“This is the last time you push me into anything.” He knows it’s wrong as it comes out, knows she’ll ignore his aggressive posturing as she always does, but his frustration needs to go _somewhere_.

She smirks. **“** I never pushed you into anything **.”**

Rage clouds him again, dark as smoke. “You pushed me into _everything_.” Plausibly deniable pressure, always. Crowding him into decisions. Disapproving when he made the wrong ones. Joking demands that weren’t really jokes. It took _years_ to untangle the wiring she’d left in his mind, and she won’t even acknowledge she put it there. 

He opens the door. “Let’s go. And let’s make it count.”

He recognizes his rawness as the void’s frostbite. He still can’t get warmth back through his skin. 

* * *

When he returns to the office, Foggy is waiting with a bulky case file.

“Why are you fancy?”

His voice is cautious, bewildered, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask questions anymore. Like he doesn’t expect an answer. Sympathy jars Matt, resignation chills him. None of his emotions are calibrated correctly. 

Foggy doesn’t know him either. Screw them both.

“I went to a party with Elektra.” Her name is still cinders, even after all these years.

The muscles around Foggy’s eyes stretch wide. “Elektra’s back? God, Matt, are you okay?” He steps forward, heart beating fast and concerned, and reaches out as if to check him for injuries. The first time he’s reached out in weeks.

Matt pulls back. “I’m fine, Foggy,” he says, raw.

Foggy’s hand falters, and he lowers it. “All right, buddy,” he says, sounding tired. Foggy’s concerned attention follows him until he heads into his office and shuts the door.

* * *

Elektra’s back, and he’s fallen into her again. Into the flow of her excitement, into the adrenaline, melting into something formless.

The last time he felt _formed_ was his night with Claire. The night that took his need for adrenaline and channeled it into healing, into something that wouldn’t destroy. The night where the lines he drew were firm and solid, where the air was clear. 

Before he’s entirely thought it through, he’s dialed the number, the phone is already ringing. Once. Twice.

She picks up. “How bad is it this time?” 

He winces. “Nothing like that. I, uh. Would you mind getting lunch with me?”

“Like a date?” She sounds nonplussed, and a little disapproving.

“No! No, God no.”

“Then what’s this about?” Suspicion colors her voice.

He’s assuaged enough suspicion lately. “Forget it. This was a bad idea.”

There’s a calculating rustle on the other end of the line. “Tomorrow at 12:30? Starbucks near the courthouse?”

He breathes out a sigh. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

The void settles in. He doesn’t throw anything up, just clenches around the food and the feelings. His emotions don’t blur anymore, they just don’t happen, they’re distant. Cold.

He uses that cold.

“The most important case we've ever handled starts in the morning. I can't go with you,” he says.

“Can't or won't?” Elektra says.

He tenses his hand around the phone. “Can't. My life doesn't stop every time you call.”

“This may be our one chance to translate this ledger before the Yakuza adjust their plans and we lose all the progress we've made.”

She’s escalating. She always escalates the adrenaline. Calling him in the middle of work, assuming he’ll be bored enough to accept what she offers; inventing urgent deadlines, mysteries for him to solve.

The constant, addictive novelty isn't worth the cost, ignoring everything he prioritizes. It pulls him so magnetically he almost says yes.

“He’s an unarmed professor,” he manages instead, barely, focusing on drawing sharp, bold lines between them. “Pretty sure you can handle this one yourself.”

The sound of her breath at that is almost disappointed, and his answering spike of triumph is violent. A pattern he’d left behind. “That’s not the Matthew I knew,” she says coaxingly.

Another slash of raw-edged anger. “Yeah, well. A lot can change in four years.”

He hangs up the phone. He wishes, for the first time in decades, for a corded phone with a cradle, so he could slam it down in her face.

She’s never sorry. Jesus says to forgive anyone who repents, but Elektra never truly does. Never apologizes for the hundreds of times she’s wronged him, not when it costs her a single thing.

* * *

“How’ve you been, Claire?”

“I’m done with my classes. Just waiting on the grades now before I get my piece of paper.”

“That’s fantastic! Congratulations.”

“Thanks. And I’ve got a new guy.” A small upturn in her facial musculature, the equivalent of a splitting grin on anyone else.

He returns the grin. It’s good to know she’s happy. Happier than she ever was with him. “What kind of terrible life decisions does this one make?”

She worries at the collar of her scrubs, tilts her head consideringly. Then she relaxes again. “Nothing I’m too worried about yet.” She leans forward and says, too quiet for anyone else to hear, “Helps that he’s tougher than a speeding bullet.”

Huh. “Any chance he likes to wear hoodies?”

Her smile this time is secretive. “Maybe.”

“Wow. You _do_ have a type.”

An actual laugh at that. But she settles back into her chair, face slackening into something somber. “Not that I don’t enjoy the small talk, but why am I here, Matt?”

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. He doesn’t know how he expected Claire to help with any of the ways his world is disintegrating.

“It’s nothing,” he says. He touches the bridge of his nose, above where the glasses rest.

She’s assessing him again, that clinical detachment, estimating what he’s not saying. Deciding what to do with him. “You need a planet, Matt?” she says, finally.

He wants to bristle. He doesn’t need _anything_ , it’s condescending that she would imply it. But he’s frayed, like he was four years ago. Staying upright is all his energy. Hearing her ask if _he_ needs a planet, truth in her heart— Neptune for his sake, not hers— undoes him. 

His breath goes ragged. “I really do.”

She nods. “What planet’s this conversation about?”

“Neptune,” he says, and sags _._ Poison memories and tension drain out of him until all that’s left is the truth. 

“What’s going on, Matt?”

“Elektra’s back.” That part’s easiest to start with. 

“Shit,” she says, an echo of Foggy he nearly flinches at. 

He tells her everything— how Elektra’s mission keeps drawing Matt back in even though he’s fuzzy about what it is, about how it’ll help the city. How he keeps trying to break his old patterns and the hold she has on him, how he keeps falling backwards into the caldera around her voice.

“I want to forgive her. I was almost free of her, and I want to forgive her so I can move forward. So she’s out of my head. But I can’t figure out how to.”

He tells her what happened with Foggy after she left.

“After I kissed him, we didn’t speak for weeks. Then he stopped trusting anything I had to say. Now we’ve had another falling-out, we’re not really speaking unless we have to, and I’m not sure we’re coming back from this one, Claire. I’m not sure what to do.”

“You trust me, Matt?”

Trust is tricky. He trusted Foggy, and that trust is rubbed bloody. The place where he trusted Elektra is broken. But so far, Claire’s never given him a reason for doubt.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Tell me about the good that Elektra’s brought to your life. The G-rated stuff.”

“I can’t think about it,” he says, frustration leaking more poison through him, because Claire’s not _getting it_. Those memories are trapped in the void. His mind has been emptied of them, even though he knows they were there once. All he remembers is the pain she brought him, the damage she’s doing.

“She’s never boring,” he lands on. “Whether I’m happy or not, I’m never bored.” His mind skitters away from the rest, but he tries. Fishes for the intellectual reality, even if he can’t reach the feelings. “She understood what it was like, growing up without a, a traditional family. She understood my violence. She liked it and she indulged it. It felt like she trusted me.”

“Now tell me about the good that Foggy’s brought to your life.”

Far easier. “He saved my sanity when I was vulnerable. Never asked for anything in return. He kept my secrets and only ever judged me for one. He notices when something's wrong with me and finds a way to help. He’s friendly, loyal, quick with a joke. He’s an amazing law partner— a meticulous researcher, always willing to summarize non-accessible documents during discovery, even though it’s tedious. He’s a fundamentally practical man, but he joined this practice so we could help the innocent together. He was the first person I trusted after Elektra, after I thought I couldn’t trust anyone again. And the first person I’ve felt this way about since. I thought I’d lost the capacity for it.”

The last sentences break through Neptune into raw misery. God, he wishes he could still hide that from himself. 

“Okay. Now listen to me, Matt. The best compliment you could manage for Elektra right now was ‘not boring.’ And you’re with her every day. You just listed a _dozen_ good things that Foggy’s brought to your life, most of them in the present tense even though you’re not talking. Why is Elektra the one you’re focused on forgiving?”

“Because the harder forgiveness is, the more morally imperative it is.” Because forgiveness is lifting someone’s negative imprints from your mind, and Elektra is the one he wants out of his head. 

For all he feels pained and numb about Foggy, he wants to keep him and his lessons. He gave Matt so much. He gave Matt Neptune, and even tainted, it’s changed how he interacts with the world. He wouldn’t be having this conversation with Claire without it— might not have even recognized the need.

“Why? Isn’t it better to give your forgiveness to someone who’s proved they deserve it?” She sounds baffled.

“Forgiveness isn’t about deserving. It’s about… about being God’s will in the world,” he says. “Love multiplies. Mercy multiplies. People sin because they don’t have enough of either, they're kind because they grew up with enough. Forgiving people who act worse brings more light to the world.” 

But it’s an oversimplification, an excuse. When the priest asked what Matt needed that drove him to sin, he knew it wasn’t love, wasn’t mercy.

“And I can’t judge the value of a human soul. Only God can, and God forgives us all.” _Everyone repentant_ , a traitorous part of his brain corrects. 

“You know that’s crap. You judge people all the time. You wouldn’t do your evening job if you didn’t.” She rubs her hands together. “I’m a nurse, Matt. I triage, and I don’t get the way you’re triaging this problem. What makes Elektra the priority here?”

“No one understands her,” he says softly. “Foggy’s got an entire family.” But it’s not that simple either. He’s experienced how Foggy’s family situation could leave him overlooked, miserable. And he’s encountered Hugo Natchios, the care he showered on Elektra.

He presses his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what makes her the priority, Claire. I don’t know.”

She nods. “I won’t give you advice, Matt. I know how well you take that. But think about it.”

* * *

He gives the opening statement at the Castle trial. He’s so drenched with misery, exhausted from the extra patrols he’s using to distract from Elektra, that he’s almost late, but he steps through the doors right before they close. The relief coursing through Foggy’s bloodstream is unwelcomely heartening.

Welcomely. It should be welcome. Just three months ago, he’d thought to himself that Foggy had shown him loyalty and affection impossible outside of fairy tales, and now he can’t even accept a Foggy who’s professionally pleased to see him. What is he _doing_?

Afterwards, he doesn’t walk to the station, like he ordinarily would. He approaches Foggy, who tenses as soon as he notices Matt.

He almost turns back. He doesn't know why he’s doing this. Doesn’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. But he told Claire he’d think about it.

“Thanks. Uh, for the background research. It was vital to the case.” 

“Um. Sure thing.” Foggy sounds distant.

He pushes forward. “Do you want to get coffee? Talk through the case, strategize our next steps?”

“That can wait until tomorrow, Matt. I need a break.” _From you_ , he doesn’t say, but the implication lingers, as does the strain in his voice.

“All right,” he says, and listens to the clap of Foggy’s shoes against the sidewalk as he turns away.

* * *

Two weeks later, Foggy calls in sick and Marci shows up in his place.

The last person he would have expected to voluntarily darken his doorstep, the very last person, is Marci. Her hands are behind and beside her, conspicuously not balled into fists, and her shoulders are leading. Not a fighting posture, but an aggressive one. “Ms. Stahl?” he says cautiously.

“Esquire,” she says, “but points for the rest of it.” Then, to his surprise, she settles her shoulders back. “Fuck. I’m not here to fight with you. I’m here because you need to talk to Foggy.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Of course something’s wrong, but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit to Marci that he knows, that he’s trying, that he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Everything’s wrong,” Marci says bluntly. “I don’t know what you did to him, but whatever’s going on between the two of you, it’s killing him. He’s not sleeping right, he’s not eating right, and he won’t even talk about it. One time I made him choke down a banana, and he threw it right back up.”

The churn of emotions goes dead. Ices over.

“What’s he eating?” A person who’s not him says, using his mouth. “Exactly.”

“What the fuck does that matter?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know. Simple carbs.”

Nightmarish cold is trickling through him. It isn’t Friendsgiving anymore. It’s not the time. And even if it were, Foggy kept food down every other year. Just not the one right after his grandfather died. 

“I know he’ll never tell you it’s because of you, but it is, Murdock,” she continues. “This is the kind of damage only you do. Clear it up. He likes you. God knows why.”

He focuses on a level voice. “Same reason he likes you. I’m a stubborn bastard.” He thinks he finally understands it, why Marci keeps drawing Foggy in. Marci is cactus-sharp, but her spines are armor, fierce protection for herself and those she cares about. “Thank you for coming to me.”

“Talk to him,” she says bitingly. “He’s been there for you more than enough to earn it.”

“He doesn’t need to earn anything from _anyone_ , least of all from me.” Under the desk, he’s clenching a fist. There’s very little, dangerously little, he wouldn’t do to stop Foggy from hurting. “Like you said, he deserves better than what I’ve put him through. Much better.”

She nods, and as she turns to go, he adds more softly, “Marci?”

She turns around, hand on her hip. “What?”

He just wants Foggy to be happy. “If my hunch is right… buy him some cranberry sauce, please. I’ll reimburse you if you want. He’s got to eat something besides bread. And don’t tell him it came from me: I don’t want to make things worse.”

She crosses her arms. “Huh,” she says. “Damn.” Her voice is strangely wistful. 

* * *

Peripheral awareness of Foggy was already his baseline, but now it’s a constant, focused awareness, a dissection of every movement for warning signs. And they exist. At first, they just seem like Friendsgiving signs. Slowness, strain, listlessness. But Marci’s right. Foggy doesn’t eat anything in the office other than white bread.

It’s evidence he doesn’t want to believe, but he tests it. Taco Bell is sensitive right now, but Foggy always likes the Chinese joint down the street. Matt places the order before lunch and arrives with it just as Karen’s unwrapping her sandwich. She seems startled by the tub of mapo tofu, but she thanks him, and she’s tucking into it by the time he steels himself to step inside Foggy’s office.

“What are you doing here, Matt?”

He closes the door. “Surprise lunch,” he says, setting the takeout bag on the desk. “Beef with broccoli, chicken lo mein. The classics. Thought we could share it together.”

Foggy doesn’t react much, but his nose flares. Distaste. “No thanks,” he says with exaggerated cheer, like the first time he and Matt had really spoken, but this cheer is off. Poisoned. “Brought my own lunch.”

“Yeah. About that.” He leans forward over the desk. “I’ve noticed your lunches lately, Foggy.” He tries to keep his voice gentle, nonjudgmental, but Foggy freezes, guilty adrenaline confirming, with a sick wrench, everything Matt was afraid of.

He puts his hand on the desk, a little harder than he intends to. “Is this because of me?”

Foggy shakes his head vigorously. “It’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Doesn't matter.”

That’s a yes. God, that’s a yes. 

Matt extended affection and trust to Foggy. Withdrew it the moment things didn’t go his way. And now Foggy’s acting, unmistakably, like he’s been stripped of something he loved and depended on. Like someone whose world is disintegrating.

Matt’s being _Elektra_. He’s swallowing his best friend in the void that consumed him.

If there were a chair nearby, he’d sink down into it. “God, Fogs, I never intended…”

“I know.” Foggy shifts his weight in his own chair. “Could you go now? Please?”

“If you really want me to. But please let me stay.” His heart is pounding. “Foggy, I’m sorry.”

Foggy clenches a fist against the desk. “You don’t get to apologize for this one, Matt,” he says, voice harsh and trembling. “I’m the one who screwed up. Literally my worst nightmare was making you feel like Elektra. My own goddamn insecurities brought that nightmare to life, I’m the one who has to live with it. You don’t get to take that burden on yourself.”

Foggy doesn’t want to talk about this, not because he’s angry at Matt, but because he’s angry at himself. Because he thinks _h_ _e_ doesn’t deserve _Matt’s_ forgiveness. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is, striking with the force of a tornado.

He’s moving around the desk before he’s really thought about it. Ordinarily Foggy would jump, but he stays still, withdrawn. 

Matt throws his arms awkwardly over Foggy’s shoulders, just like he did the night he got drunk on Clubtails.

It’s reminiscent in other ways, too; Matt almost topples him over again, for all that he’s seated, and Matt buries his face deep in his neck, in the smells he’s dearly missed these last several weeks. God, this was a mistake when he’s this messed up, when he wants to follow up on it so badly. He settles for just a faint press of lips against the skin that smells of home, something plausibly deniable, and guilty happiness warps him at the answering catch in Foggy’s breath.

He releases the hug, crouches beside him. “You’re not the only one who screwed up, Fogs. I treated you like… like opposing counsel, when you’re my partner. My teammate, not my opponent.” He rests a hand on his knee. “I should’ve taken everything you’ve done for me, everything you’ve been to me, into account.” 

He wants to say _it was just a miscommunication_ , to minimize it and move on, but the words stick in his throat. Because the truth is, he’s still not healed about this. The rage, the cold, are still shrieking that this is someone who’s hurt him, someone who’s a threat. Someone unsafe he should hold at a distance. 

“I don’t know how to, to forgive anymore, after Elektra. But you’re not like her, and I shouldn’t have said you were.” The heat of Elektra burned away parts of him. The warmth of Foggy left something with him. Growth in places Matt had thought were wasteland. “I should’ve trusted you, and I want to learn to do it again. No one deserves a second chance more than you. Will you work with me? Help me figure it out?”

Foggy wipes his eyes, and salt is spilling over them again. Matt can feel his own stinging. “Of course I will, Matt,” he says, and more quietly, “I didn’t just invite you to Thanksgiving because my family gave me shit.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “I know.”

He stands back up, hugs Foggy again, closer than last time, and under the coat of ashes inside him, something struggles to grow. 

_It wasn’t fate,_ Elektra said. _It was a choice. My choice._


	11. Coffee

They drink coffee in silence, or as close to it as they can manage at a cafe in New York City. They drink coffee to the ticking of the wall clock, the low hum of electricity, and the occasional shrieking, lathery whoosh of the espresso machine.

“This is awkward,” Foggy says.

“Incredibly,” Matt says. “But now you know I meant it, when I said I didn’t know how to do this.”

“I’ve never doubted your sincerity.” The words ought to hold laughter, but there’s something tentative, something wounded, about them.

“Thanks.” The espresso machine whooshes again. The clock protests in Matt’s ears.

“Where do we even start, Matt?” 

He tries to think of something, but his mind is smooth and blank as the cafe countertops. “I’m sorry.”

He drums his fingertips. “Shoulda guessed you wouldn’t know either. In that case, can I ask a personal question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you doing OK about Elektra? I’ve been worried, buddy. Really worried, and things haven’t been okay enough between us for me to ask.”

“I’m…” His mouth forms around the words _I’m fine_ before he shuts it. The void’s still screaming not to trust Foggy, but forgiveness is hard, constant work. “It’s been difficult,” he says. “Hazy. I can’t trust my reactions.”

“Been there. And…” Foggy sounds hesitant. “If you need a second opinion on anything, you know you can come to me, right? Permission granted to polygraph if you need it.”

“I don’t.” He only realizes the ambiguity of the answer when Foggy’s heart squeezes. “I don’t need to polygraph you. I know you’d do extraordinary things to help me.” A few shoots scraggle around his heart.

“Just not that I’m worth trusting with your secrets.” He waves a hand before Matt can say anything. “Sorry— that was uncalled for.”

Matt sighs. “It’s not about worth.”

“I know.” He wrings his hands. “It’s okay that we’re not there. I get that I lost the right to your secrets. But I hope it’s okay that I miss knowing them. Knowing you.”

Guilt shoots through him. “I miss it too,” he says. “And I don’t want our relationship to be about, about losing rights to things.”

“What _do_ you want it to be about?”

“Uh. Trust,” he says, glad that Foggy can’t hear _his_ heartbeat for the half-truth. “I want us to trust each other enough to be truthful. I want us to trust each other enough to not need proof of that.”

Foggy nods, leans forward. “Decent goal. How do we do that?”

The clock ticks louder.

Right now, the entire system they built as a gesture of trust feels broken— a blunt tool to force honesty, Elektra laughing about the sordid details.

“Can you trust me anymore without a planet? It feels like you haven’t without Neptune since… since a couple of months ago,” he says awkwardly. They still haven’t talked about the kiss. 

“I can work on it.” Foggy drums his fingers again, a hollow echo on the table. “Doesn’t feel fair, though. You always know whether I’m telling the truth with your heartbeat superpowers.”

“I… can try not to listen,” he says hesitantly. “But I can’t always ignore it if it’s too loud. Stick trained me to listen for warning signs.”

“Why am I not surprised that’s how he put it.” He shakes his head. “Okay, buddy. You do your best and I’ll do mine.” 

He nods, and they fall silent again. Silent enough for the void to remind him he shouldn’t be here. Ice closing around him, the shriek of the espresso machine, the oppression of every tick—

It’s only when Foggy’s heart accelerates that he realizes he’s been digging his fingernails into his palms. Thank God he always keeps them short. He releases them and tries to smile, but Foggy, always merciful, chips away at the ice, even if he can’t entirely break it. 

“I asked you a softball question about Elektra and you answered honestly. Got anything for me, buddy?”

He doesn’t. None of the questions he has to ask are simple or light. But he does know how to set people at ease.

He grins with practiced nonchalance. “Is that a new haircut?”

Foggy relaxes, minutely, into their familiar banter. “Like you could tell. Wait, can you tell? No, I get _one_ softball question today, we can work up to your opinions on my hairstyle.”

“Well. I’ve never seen your hair look better.”

“You asshole.”

This is ordinarily where Foggy would have reached out to smack him, but they’re both keeping their hands carefully to themselves, keeping their hearts out of the light banter. It doesn’t feel good, easy, the way things used to between them.

But it’s a beginning.

* * *

The cut on the back of Elektra’s neck is small, but it’s deep. Reluctantly, he takes her back to his apartment.

They banter while he stitches. It’s not like old times between them, either, but he’s proud to maintain a tone of level friendliness. Proud enough that he’s tallying it for confession. And furious that he _wants_ to be friendly with Elektra, even after what she’s done: another sin to confess.

“You’re done.” He drops the needle into the pot and turns the burner on, absently monitoring the heat it gives off. Once it gets to sterilization temperature, he’ll turn it down. “It’ll leave a scar.”

“Good. Another for the collection.”

A hush falls over his apartment, punctured by the roil of the water and the clink of the needle within it, the glaring buzz of the billboard.

“What do you tell people?” There’s no laughter in Elektra’s voice, no dismissal. Unusual for her.

He folds his arms against a surge of memories. Of Elektra’s vulnerabilities, of the woman he’d loved and thought he’d known. “About?”

“Where you got your scars.”

It’s an uncomfortably intimate question, one he doesn’t want to melt into. “Lucky me, I wear suits to work, so it rarely comes up,” he deflects.

“What do you tell the women you bring home?”

That, he smirks at. “A lot of assumptions in that sentence.” Elektra really _has_ missed a lot.

“Matthew!” She punches him in the shoulder, a sensory echo that sends cold through him. “Don’t tell me I turned you gay.”

Sterilization temperature: he turns the heat down enough to keep the water at that steady boil. “Of course you make it about you.” He’s only half-joking.

“Because I know you. I know when you’ve got a story.” She tilts her face up, laughingly imperious. “Tell me all the sordid details.”

Matt drops his smile instantly. His hands twitch at his sides. “We’re not doing that anymore, Elektra.”

“Fine.” She waves her hand dismissively, but her heart contradicts the motion. It’s speeding with hurt, her skin takes on the musty, metallic smell of sadness.

He hates it. He hates being so weak that that’s enough to make him relent. 

“Fine. You did turn me gay a little.” It’s even half-true. He wouldn’t have approached Foggy if Elektra hadn’t broken him down. Might not have identified that part of himself. There’s something to be grateful to her for, at least.

He tells her about Foggy— not enough to hint at the depth of his feelings, not enough to hint at anything other than a simple, post-relationship hookup. Enough to make her happy and salacious instead of malcontent.

“Your shaggy-haired roommate?” she laughs. “I know I left you in a bad state, but you must have been desperate.”

Her cold dismissal of the most important relationship in his life bites cold rage back through him. “Don’t talk about him like that,” he says sharply. “He did more for me than you ever did.”

Far, far more revealing than he’d intended. Not that hiding it would have done much. She’s always been able to see through him.

Her heart beats a surprising pang of hurt. “Is he why you’ve been so cold since I came back?”

“No,” he says, because he’s not. Matt is cold to counteract her fire, cold because of the void she left in him. Foggy, what Matt feels for him, is ancillary. “You brought that on yourself.”

Still, the urge rises to stand between her and her sadness, and he quells it with unease.

“There was a time you believed I was good, Matthew.” Her voice is weary. “When you trusted me. I ran as far from you as possible to spare you from that lie. So why do I still miss it?”

It’s not the kind of question that demands an answer, a rarity for Elektra. So he lets it hang unanswered between them.

He turns the burner off, leaves the water to cool. It’s telling, that her first question was about the scars she can see. His deepest scars aren’t superficial. They’re tissue embedded deep in his chest cavity. Wounds she’d left him with, bleeding stigmata that reopen every September.

Foggy’s the only one who’s seen those scars. Elektra never did— still doesn’t. He doesn’t know how to forgive her for that, either.

* * *

He still senses past Elektra everywhere, even as Elektra fills his present, and he’s only just beginning to understand why. Past Elektra burned marks of indelible pain into him, marks that scarred but never fully healed, so her presence is indelible too, thick strata of basalt and volcanic ash.

He’s been compacting into those layers of his life, fossilizing. 

His missing parts stayed with past Elektra, too, not just in Roscoe Sweeney’s parlor. And eventually, if he stays around the Elektra of today, he’s going to calcify within that parlor with her, unable to be a living, growing organism from so many layers deep in his past.

But he is alive, and he _has_ grown.

* * *

The line stretches out the front door. People are chatting in clusters, and the air is sticky with humid bodies and too many mingled foods. He should have known better than to try meeting at a coffee shop at 7:30 in the morning. Especially a good one.

“We could go somewhere else,” Foggy says cautiously.

“You haven’t eaten, right?” Matt says.

“I don’t need to eat here. There’s an Au Bon Pain two blocks away that gets less traffic. We could pick up something there, then walk and talk.”

He nods assent and they duck out of line. Two steaming ham and cheese croissants later, they begin the trudge to work. He’s conscientiously trying to ignore Foggy’s heartbeat, to put them on even ground, but it’s not working. He’s rested his attention on Foggy for so long that Foggy’s heartbeat is a part of Matt’s subconscious.

Right now it’s rapid— from exertion, but the cortisol dusting his skin whispers that it’s more than that.

“This feels even weirder,” Foggy says. “Talking about sensitive subjects out in the open.”

“It’s, ah. Actually easier for me,” Matt says, feeling sheepish. “No one’s likely to overhear the whole conversation this way. And I’m more comfortable when I move.”

“Explains how pace-y you got at debate club.” He nods and squares his shoulders. “Okay. If you’re comfortable, I can work with that.”

“If you’re not, _I_ can work with that,” Matt insists. “The idea isn’t for one of us to sacrifice their comfort for the other.”

“You know how much of a hypocrite you’re being right now, right, Matt?” Tension has sprouted between them again like a wall of thorns. “Dammit.” Matt hears his eyelids close mostly by the way their muscle fibers cease humming. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. My point was, though, it feels _weird_. It doesn’t feel impossible— it’ll just take some getting used to, and I’d rather you be comfortable.” 

“Fine. But next time, we go back to the cafe. Just… not at 7:30 AM.”

“Deal.” He stops to shake Matt’s hand, a flustering press of skin. They make their way towards the office.

“Today’s question. Why did you tell me not to spend Elektra’s money?” Foggy’s steps are even, steady, like they’re marching instead of walking. “ ‘Cause last year we dealt with a lot of less ethically sourced money, and… you can see why I might have been worried?” He sounds like he’s trying, simultaneously, to be defensive and supportive, the same emotional flavor that infused all of his requests for a planet this year.

But it’s different— this time, Foggy’s leading with his concerns, not trying to make the question neutral. No hidden agendas.

He exhales the unwillingness out of his shoulders. “I didn’t want to make a decision about the money yet. She gave it against my express wishes, with ulterior motives, and like I said, everything about Elektra is hazy. I needed time to see through it, and to figure out how we could address it.” He rubs his thumb between his index and middle finger, letting it take his focus from the world around them. “I know I wasn’t clear, but I was trying to ask for your help.”

“You were trying to...? Shit.” He sounds so genuinely dismayed that Matt finds himself angling towards him.

“How would you feel if I touched you right now, Fogs?” Instantly he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, exactly the language Matt used before he threw the fight under his skin and let Foggy kiss him against a door. Both of them stiffen, and poison floods Matt. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”

“Yeah, buddy, I figured.” His voice is wry, and a little sad. “We kinda missed the boat on that one. It’s fine, go ahead.” A pang of resignation on Matt’s side, too, but it’s okay. It’s fine. He’s trying to get their relationship back, not ask for more.

He rests his palm on Foggy’s arm as the poison begins to drain away. “I wasn’t clear, and I might never have actually asked for help. I’m doing things that don’t make sense lately,” he hates to admit it, “close to how I reacted after Elektra.”

“I’m sorry, man,” he says, and the sympathy in his voice is sincere. “Trauma’s like that. Makes your brain think it’s gone back in time.” 

“I hate that feeling,” he says. He doesn’t _want_ to be trapped in a room with Roscoe Sweeney in perpetuity. “But I appreciate knowing it’s… common. You’ve done a lot of research.”

“I wanted to understand myself,” he says, that same warm defensive support in his voice. He twists his hands together. “And I wanted to understand you more.“

Too soon, they’ve arrived at the front door of the office. “We’ll table this until later. Sound okay?”

“Until the coffee shop.” He considers it a win that Foggy’s heartbeat has slowed.

* * *

Jesus said, “If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him; and if he sins against you seven times in the day, and turns to you seven times, and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him.” It’s a passage Matt remembers, because he’s never been able to fully agree. There’s a limit to repentance, just like there’s a limit to human forgiveness. If Fisk repented, it would take years of thankless work before anyone could believe in his redemption.

Foggy’s no criminal, does nothing with intent to wrong. But each time Foggy asked for a planet feels like another sin, one he repeated seven times and repented of. Each new question he asks feels like one of Elektra’s sins, wresting truths and control from him, burning through attempts to keep himself distinct and fully formed. As always, Matt doesn’t know how to forgive that. There’s no easy simplicity to it. 

But forgiving himself is even less simple. Forgiveness is an act of trust— trusting others not to reoffend, trusting himself to evaluate others. After all his misjudgments, finding that trust in himself again is navigating a labyrinth. Dead ends for hurting Foggy in a way that lingers in him, for ignoring Elektra’s dangers, for letting her back into his life. Every mistake he repeats, he has to turn around and start anew. 

Still, Foggy says you’re never really done forgiving. Maybe there’s something to that.

* * *

“Can I ask about something that's not important, but that I’m curious about?” Foggy kicks against the table, jostling their coffee, which sloshes precariously. 

“Go ahead.” 

This coffee shop is cozier than the last— comfort-worn armchair rather than stiff metal and plastic, baffling in the walls that absorbs the shrieks of the espresso machine instead of amplifying them. And the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate on the shelves smell surprisingly acceptable: he might pick one up on the way out.

“The glass thing. You didn’t tell me exactly what, but that has to do with Elektra?”

The void whispers. “Yeah.” Poison trickles its way down his spine. He doesn’t really want to go into it— the smashing of champagne flutes, feeling like the only unbreakable thing in the world was his and Elektra’s love. “It’s from the day she left. Why I asked you for Clubtails, actually.”

“Wow, she _did_ ruin your life.”

It’s funny, he knows it is, so he chuckles, but Foggy makes a concerned noise. “Did I bring up some bad shit for you, buddy?”

“Kinda,” he says reluctantly.

“Damn. Sorry,” he says. “Need a break?”

_No_ , he wants to say. But if Foggy’s going to trust him, he needs to think through his answers. 

He tries to focus on one sound, one sensation in the room. Nothing’s blurring, but his mind won’t settle. “I think so,” he says.

“Cool.” 

In the past, Foggy might have hugged him. He misses that terribly, and he’s grateful Foggy doesn’t make the attempt. Instead they make more faux-easy banter until the wiring starts to untwist in him, until he can finish answering the question. 

“Only part of the glass thing is from Elektra,” he says. “The rest of it… people assume the blind guy is fragile. Handle him gently or he’ll break. You’ve mostly never done that, and I appreciate it, Fogs.”

It’s a sincerely meant compliment, so he’s surprised by the stress reaction he gets in response. “Nice of you to say so, bud. Wish I’d done better than ‘mostly,’ but I’m glad I haven’t gotten it totally wrong.”

“‘Mostly’ is better than anyone else I know,” he says, feeling unaccountably irritated. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Yeah. But I wanna be perfect where it counts.” His voice is infused with regret. “Speaking of, I’ve got a serious question about this conversation. You capable of answering?” 

“I think so,” he says, a little reluctantly. He’s better, but he’s still reacting wrong, flares of annoyance and mistrust.

Foggy hesitates, then lets out a frustrated sigh. “All right, I’ll take that at face value,” he says, and the suppressed skepticism in his voice makes more irritation swell in Matt, pulls the void closer. “My question is: did you actually want to answer the question about the glass, Matt?”

He presses at the bridge of his nose, discomfort inundating him. There’s only one really honest answer to that— even thinking about it had been painful. But he’s not sure Foggy will take the truth well.

Still. He takes a steadying breath. There’s only one way to find out. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you for being honest.” His tone is tinged with relief, and he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Will you polygraph me, Matt? I know we’re not doing that right now, but I want to say something, and I really want you to know I mean it.”

It’s tempting, this return to their old normalcy, Foggy offering to demonstrate his sincerity empirically. And Foggy’s heart speaks to him on the peripheries anyway. But it’s against the spirit of what they’re trying to do. Their friendship had broken, they’ve splinted it, and they’re trying to take the crutches away to strengthen its atrophied muscles. 

“I won’t,” he says. “If we’re trying to trust each other’s word, we have to practice doing that. No workarounds.”

Besides, Foggy asking for a polygraph is evidence enough of his sincerity.

“It’s _about_ trust, which is why I want you to understand. But I guess I’ll have to… trust that you will. This feels weird, Matt.”

“To me too.”

“At least you’re in it with me,” he says, and the words meld into Matt’s chest with a smooth, surprising warmth. “What I wanna say, Matt, is… my priority here is always getting to know you, which means hearing what you want to share and leaving space for what you don’t. It’s okay if you don’t tell me things. You can say no when I ask.”

He jerks upright, the warmth slides away. Cold blusters around him, screaming that it’s a lie, that he’s _felt_ that it’s a lie. 

“I know I gave you absolutely no reason to believe that. I’m sorry— I fucked up, and you deserve an explanation if you want one. But if you don’t, I’ll just leave it alone. I don’t wanna be one of those people who explains things to defend themselves.”

The cold is loud, the void’s frostbite still burns his skin. It would be so easy to reject the apology, or to stop it there. But he _wants_ to believe that Foggy wasn’t lying when he said Matt didn’t owe him his secrets. That the months of betraying his promises were some kind of accident, or fluke. That Matt didn’t make a mistake, giving Foggy a second chance. 

The cold is trailing off into a whisper. “I think I’d like that explanation,” he says cautiously.

“I’m glad, buddy.” He snags a hand into his collar. “Part of it you already know. Growing up, being honest was the only way I knew to make friends. Flip side is, when I stop being honest with people, it’s usually because I wanna cut them out.” A pang of understanding, of sympathy, even before Foggy angles his body away from Matt and continues. “That’s what I thought you were doing— trying to back off on our friendship. I didn’t know how to process us being close but you still wanting to hide something big from me.”

“That's my shit to sort through,” he thumps his chest emphatically, “and I’m only telling you about it so it doesn't get in your way again, not because I expect anything from you.”

It’s a nice sentiment. “I appreciate it,” he says, and tries to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

* * *

After they’ve bused their table, they walk towards the subway station in uneasily companionable silence until Foggy breaks it.

“I’ve got more to talk about, but it’s gonna be rough, buddy, and I don’t think I can make myself do it in public. Is there anywhere private you’d feel comfortable enough to talk to me yet? Otherwise, we can wait.”

It’s true— all their shared private spaces are fraught. Too many memories of too many hurts, too many bad decisions made on couches. But he’s not going to be a coward. “You can come over tomorrow. If you’re comfortable.” 

Foggy nods. “All things considered, I was half expecting you to suggest we book a hotel. Why don’t I consider words before they come out of my mouth,” he laments as Matt stiffens. “What I _meant_ to say is, sure, bud. That’s doable. And cheaper than what I was expecting.”

“You were budgeting actual money to have that conversation?” Tension and flattered warmth fill him, a confusing tangle. 

“Dude,” Foggy responds, with that same warm tension, “If fixing our friendship only costs a hundred bucks, I’d consider it cheap.”

“Oh.” Warmth wins out. “Thanks.”

“I’d say anytime, but buddy, let’s not make a habit of this, okay? My wallet can’t take it.” Not a lie, but it’s not what he means.

With Elektra, his initial attraction had been consuming, burning through warning signs and his better judgment. Foggy’s always been different. A slow radiance, not a blaze, sunlight penetrating each layer of his skin. 

“Mine either,” he says, and resists the conflicted urge to take Foggy’s hand.

* * *

There’s nothing to _do_ when he gets back home the next day, not until Foggy arrives. Matt doesn’t have an appetite. The apartment is clean. He’s tempted to go out on patrol, work off some nervous energy, but nothing he can hear is pressing.

He’s pacing by the time Foggy arrives, huffing under the weight of a bulky insulated bag. “I come bearing the remains of my shitty liquor cabinet,” he says. “Please help me get rid of them.” 

Matt takes the proffered bag. “And become an accessory to your crimes against good taste?” he says. “Yeah, all right.”

“Thanks,” Foggy says, drifting absently over to the cupboard and opening it. “We can ditch the bodies in the dumpster later. Hey,” he says mid-rummage, “I know right after Elektra you wouldn’t drink beer. Is that okay now, or is it still off-limits, like champagne?”

“I never liked beer,” he admits. “Hops are bitter and malt smells like vomit. But if you don’t mind breaking it out early, I’ve still got last year’s Macallan.”  
  


Foggy emerges with Matt’s favorite glass and the chipped one he insists on using every time. “Or I could give you some more shitty box wine,” he says, handing Matt his glass.

“Ah.” He shuffles, and the muscles on Foggy’s face all climb at once— lifted brows, oscillations along his cheeks and around his mouth. 

“You _like_ it, don’t you!” 

“It’s… acceptable on occasion,” he says, fighting down a smile of his own. “But don’t make a habit of it. It’s no Clubtails.”

“Thank God for that,” he says, clinking their empty glasses together.

They sit at opposite ends of the couch with their shitty box wine, as far from each other as possible. After a few minutes of sipping, Matt says, to break the tension he’s felt since yesterday, “So what did you want to talk about?”

Foggy sets his glass onto the coaster Matt keeps around for guests, curls his index fingers around his thumbs. “The planets.” Matt’s stomach lurches. “I’m not asking for them back, don’t worry,” Foggy says hastily. “But I’ve got to understand where they went wrong. When did they stop being useful for you?”

“They didn’t.” His stomach clenches further. Foggy doesn’t know he uses planets with anyone else. It’ll hurt him, knowing that Matt’s refusal to use it with Foggy is personal, that it’s not about the method itself.

He can feel Foggy studying him, feel his suspicion rising. He caves. “I actually used them last month, talking to Claire,” he adds reluctantly, setting his own glass down on the side table.

“Oh.” His voice is small and hurt, as Matt had anticipated. “That’s good.”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t need your heartbeat to know that’s a lie.”

“It _is_ good that they’re still useful for you,” he says stubbornly, and this time, it’s unmistakably the truth. “I just… thought they were an us thing.”

“They were,” he says. “I used a planet with Claire by accident. And she…” _made me explain myself_ , he wants to say, but that’s not fair, Elektra manipulates him into doing things, not Claire. “She encouraged me to explain. When she asked if she could use them too, I gave her a chance.” He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m glad I did. Last month, I really needed someone to talk to, with everything that was happening between us and with Elektra, and I didn’t know how else to do it.”

“Oh.” Even smaller. “Well, I'm glad you can still have that.”

“It’s not the same when she uses them,” he says, because for some reason, he really needs Foggy to know. “If she used them the same way you did, I don’t think I would’ve repeated the experience. It...” felt like a betrayal. “Felt wrong to use them with someone else.”

“It’s not, buddy.” His heart beats truth. “I want you to have them when you need them. That’s why I came up with the system in the first place.”

“I know you do. But it feels like an us thing to me too.”

The ensuing silence is warmer, more relaxed, but still strained.

“Is that what you needed to know, about the planets?” he says. “I answered the question, but I’m not sure why you asked it.” 

“Kinda.” He tilts his head back. “What I was really asking is when things went south between us. Asking you for a planet on the money was the straw. Straws don’t break a camel’s back unless they’re already carrying too much, and it seems like the planets were carrying too much for you. I wanna do better.”

“Ah,” he says softly. He considers. “It built up gradually. No specific moment, just a... bundle of straws. If you want to know _what_ made things go south, though, it was the repetition, and the suspicion.” He hesitates again, because going into the specifics feels like blame.

“Go on, Matt. And don’t worry about my feelings. I asked because I needed to know.”

“I didn’t like the planets just because they let me choose whether to be honest. You valued when I told you the truth. It made you happy.” He hates to make this comparison, knows it’s going to hurt Foggy again, and he has to take a moment to compose himself to say it. “Elektra was never happy with anything I told her, not unless it was sordid. When you kept asking me for planets, dissected every answer, thought I was lying even though I always gave you Neptune...” He scrapes his fingernails against his leg. “You weren’t happy with anything I told you either. I didn’t want to go back to the way Elektra made me feel.”

He slumps backwards against the couch. “I’m sorry, Matt. I hate that I did that to you. If I could take it back, I would.” Matt shakes his head.

“I don't think I would. We might have gotten it wrong for years otherwise. This way we’re at least clear on where the problems are.”

He leans back against the couch himself. Foggy’s body is a mass of stress and pain right now— eye muscles tensed shut, clenched arms, loudly churning gut. And Foggy came here today anticipating this, came here for the express purpose of asking questions he knew would hurt him. Was willing to pay _money_ for this, just so he could understand how to do better for Matt.

As always, the sincerity and the loyalty lodges in his chest. Spikes it with pained confusion, with warmth, with reciprocation. If Foggy can face this so bravely, so unflinchingly, for Matt, then Matt can summon up the same courage for him. Can ask the question that’s troubled him for months, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. 

He laces his hands together across his ribcage. “Why _did_ you keep asking me for a planet, Fogs?” he says quietly. “Did you stop trusting me?”

His posture snaps into alertness, his eyelids tap open. He straightens from his slump to face Matt. “Partly, I was trying to wrap my head around the Daredevil stuff. I had months of questions piled up about it. Partly, I was deluded. I really thought I was helping you. Showing you that telling me the truth was safe.”

The strands of his hair swish against the air as he shakes his head. “But I won’t lie. Part of it was that I didn’t trust you. Not for the reason you think,” he adds, as Matt suppresses a flinch. “I didn’t trust you to want to tell me things anymore, and that really hurt.” His hands twist together, a dry rasp. “You don’t trust many people. It mattered to me, being one of them. So when you took that away, I tried to force it. It sucked of me, and I’m sorry. I was a bad friend.”

It means too much, hearing him admit to wronging Matt. Hearing him _regret_ it. Too many emotions, all with an intensity that sparks through his nervous system: sickly triumph at having hurt someone who hurt him, compassion for his pain, the urgent need to soothe it away. To tell him he was never a bad friend.

The scales where he weighs Foggy’s actions are teetering, chaotic as a demagnetized compass. Years ago he teetered like this, clinging to every scrap of Foggy’s addictive pleasure, falling back into the consuming fire of Elektra. Both sides of the scales were raw, left him vulnerable, and they’re no less raw today.

He can pull back from them. If he pulls back, the fulcrum will rebalance, the scales will still. He can regain equilibrium. Politely accept Foggy’s remorse. Keep having safe conversations where nothing really changes between them.

And he’ll never get back the closeness they had, or let it grow into something new. And it will hurt Foggy, to feel him stay distant, and Foggy won’t be able to understand. Matt won’t be able to understand. 

He puts his thumb on the scales. Leans forward into the unsteadiness.

“You made some mistakes. I don’t know whether that makes you a bad friend, but… you’re a friend I want to keep. Someone I want to trust with my secrets again. It meant a lot to me too.” The next part takes more effort. “And I wasn’t hiding my… career… because I didn’t trust you. I was trying to protect you.” The last time he tried to talk to Foggy about his motivations, he got yelled at for his trouble. He hopes this time it’ll be different.

Foggy’s mouth clenches as if holding back a protest or a rebuke. But he takes a solid, centering breath. “A little condescending, but… tell me more?”

He unlaces his hands and sits up. “Learning about me put Claire in danger. My enemies took her, beat her, to try to find me. I’d never forgive myself if I let that happen to you.”

Foggy chews on his lip. “I’m not arguing with you,” he says carefully, “and it means a lot that you value me so highly. But a few things aren’t adding up for me, and I could use your clarification.” 

His shoulders are clenched. “Go ahead.”

“You started crime-fighting in your underoos well before you met Claire. If she’s your reason for wanting to protect me, why didn’t you tell me back in grad school?” 

“Because I didn’t have to experience the worst case scenario to have nightmares about it.”

“All right, that’s fair. You are an _expert_ catastrophizer.” The affectionate amusement in his voice pulls some of the tension from Matt’s shoulders. “Next: I’m your law partner. And…” a minute hesitation, an adrenaline spike. “And you’re my best friend.” 

“Still?” The word falls out of his mouth.

“Pretty much baked in at this point, buddy.” His tone is warm, but there’s a tension in his throat. “The natural assumption, to anyone who’s been around us for ten seconds, is that I know all your dirty secrets.” A little heat in his face that Matt finds guiltily enchanting. “How would _actually_ knowing them have put me in more danger?”

He hesitates. It’s a good question. “It would have made life more difficult for you. More morally questionable,” he says. “Having to hide my secrets, to cover for me. And yeah, I know you did it anyway. But I didn’t know that at the time. I never wanted that for you.”

“You’re moving goalposts. None of that puts me in _danger_ , Matt. Also, it’s the decision I made, of my own free will, when I had all the information. You saying you’d prefer to take that away? Keep me from deciding how much risk I’m willing to take on for you?” His voice has taken on an edge.

Foggy has a clear preferred answer here, and it nearly sends him spinning back to the nonverbal place, but his hands ball into fists instead. “I don’t know,” he says. “There was no way to let you make an informed decision. There weren’t shades of grey— either you didn’t know, or one way or another, you had to make a decision that would morally compromise you.” Turning in his best friend, or turning his back on the law he trained to uphold. “And you _did_ have to, don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he says, and his heart is absolutely steady. He _believes_ it.

Matt gapes. “How can you say that?”

Foggy chews his lip, which at this rate will be split tomorrow, and circles his thumbs around each other. “I’ve never had the kind of moral compass you do, Matt,” he says, finally. “If you feel like something’s the right thing to do, I’m inclined to believe it, no matter how much I hate it. Being on your side here wasn’t a tough call.”

To say he’s staggered is an understatement. “You have the strongest moral compass of anyone I know,” he protests. “People walked by that woman crying on the steps for hours, pretending not to see her. You saw me hurting after Elektra, and you imposed on your family to make sure I’d be all right. We weren’t even friends. It didn’t gain you anything.”

“Of course it gained me something.” Foggy sounds incredulous. “I liked you. We weren’t friends, but I sure as hell wanted to be. Helping you was a second chance to not fuck it up.”

“No,” he says. “You behave that way whenever you see someone in pain. You offered to send your friend on a welfare check on my gut feeling. You left L+Z because you saw them hurting people, even though it was a job most of our graduating class would have _killed_ for.”

“But see, Matt. The thing all of these situations have in common is you. That’s not an accident.” His voice is soft. “I don’t trust you not to do terrible, self-destructive shit. But I trust you to make the moral judgment call, more than I trust myself. That’s why it meant so much to have you trust me. It felt like you saw something good in me that I don’t really see in myself.”

He can’t let that slide. “I _see_ good in you, Fogs, not saw. Do you think I’d be arguing with you like this if I didn’t believe you were good? That I’d have made the choice to try to repair our friendship, over and over again, if I didn’t think you were worth it?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and his arms drop to his sides. “I don’t get why you think I’m worth it, Matt,” he says with devastating bluntness. "The thing that worked in our relationship is that you could always trust me, and I threw that away. What the hell is left after that?”

He’s drooping, weight sinking through the couch into the floor.

Matt should pull back again. Because he told Foggy, already, why he matters to Matt, in plain, clear language. This is just more evidence that he doesn’t believe it, doesn’t trust what Matt tells him. But all he can feel is his own heart sinking, because Foggy honestly believes that he’s not worth anything but trust, but what he can do for other people.

He slides closer on the couch. Lets the scales unbalance further.

“Did you forget everything I said at Thanksgiving?” he says. “What I told everyone you mean to me?”

Foggy’s breath stops short. Not surprising— Thanksgiving has been too delicate to discuss. “No,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten anything about that night.”

“Me either,” Matt says. Everything, the good and the terrible, is an unbending and stable part of his memory now. “Consider this. We were fighting by then, Fogs, and that’s _still_ what I had to say about you. I stand by every word.” He’s close enough now that he can rest his hand on Foggy’s arm. “You’re an inspiration, and I’m better because of the time I’ve spent with you. And I still trust you.” 

Foggy makes a skeptical noise at that, stinging like iodine on a wound, and starts to shake his head. “No, listen, all right?” This is important for him to get across. 

Foggy stills, and Matt flattens his palm against his arm before continuing. “I never trusted anyone like I trusted you. No one ever gave me the reasons for it you did. You’ve kept every secret I told you, even the ones Stick warned me against sharing.” In retrospect, he wonders how many of Stick’s warnings were meant to keep people from learning about Stick, about what he’d done to Matt. “And you compromised your comfort to keep my biggest secret safe for five months, even though revealing it would have been the legal thing. Some would say the moral thing. You didn’t even let it slip to _me_.” 

“I’m not over the, the interrogations, but you’ve more than proven you’ll keep my confidences. I trust you to. I just don’t trust you to _believe_ them.” He digs his blunted nails into his palm. “You couldn’t even trust that Thanksgiving speech. I can take a lot of suspicion— I deserve a lot of suspicion— but not when I mean something as much as I meant that.”

“God, that was my own fucking fault,” Foggy said, tears stinging in his voice. “People don’t say things like that to me, not ever, and I couldn’t accept it. I had to make sure I was hearing what I thought I was.”

“People should say things like that to you,” Matt says. “They should say them all the time. But if people won’t, then I will.” He feels unsettled, and tender, and dares to reach out and touch his hand.

“Fuck, _Matt_.” He wipes at his eyes with the crook of his other elbow, then turns his hand over and clutches at Matt’s. Matt squeezes it reassuringly, and the grip goes painfully tight. Then releases, abruptly. “I’m sorry, I should have asked—”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who reached out,” he says. “If it comforts you, by all means.” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t waver on the words at all, doesn’t communicate how selfishly he misses Foggy’s skin against his.

Foggy tucks his foot around the leg of the couch. “Then can I have a hug, Matt? I’d really, really like that.”

“Of course.” Truthfully, he could use the comfort himself. He wraps his arm around Foggy’s waist and leans his head on his shoulder. “This okay?”

The silence is longer this time. Matt’s just starting to worry when Foggy finally says, voice strange, “It’s perfect. Thanks.” The strangeness is concerning, but his heartbeat is absolutely true, so Matt lets the concern drift away.

“Fogs?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for this. For listening.”

And, because he has absolutely no impulse control, Matt tucks his head closer, so that it’s nestled against Foggy’s neck. He doesn’t ask, this time, if it’s okay. He’s not sure he’d like the answer. 

Foggy’s pulse speeds enticingly, and there’s a flush of that attraction Matt feels guilty about. But all he says is, “Thank _you_ , buddy. For all of this. For trying so damn hard.”

* * *

After that, the scales remain unbalanced. He doesn’t reach a new equilibrium, and he wonders if this is his new normal.

The vulnerability, the longing, is seeping back into his relationship with Foggy. But the thaw unearthed more feelings to upset the scales— mistrust, an unshakable suspicion that if he relaxes into their relationship, Foggy will disappear. The cold still shrieks, on the outskirts of his heart, that Foggy has hurt him and will do it again. Snow and ash still bury the struggling greenery. 

And Foggy’s actions aren’t the only weight on the scales. Though Elektra weighs less on his consciousness recently, she’s still there, holding space he wants to fill with forgiveness instead— for her, for Foggy, for himself. He wants her gone from his head, and he’s beginning to suspect she’ll never be.

Still. If this precarious unrest is what he has to look forward to, he thinks, as the chronic smell of cortisol fades from Foggy’s pores, as the muscles of his throat relax, he’d choose it over the alternative every time.


	12. Memories

He wanted Elektra gone from his head, not from the world. 

She’s convulsing the whole car ride home. Stripped irrevocably of the right to learn, to grow, to become better, all because he distracted her long enough to get her hit.

She strains out, “I’m sorry I never told you—” and her heart beats truth. An apology, finally, when it’s of no benefit to her. When she’s paying for it with her last breaths.

He’d had zero interest in starting anything with Elektra again. But the poison of his memories rises so high that it’s overflowing into his mouth, slow and cloying against his tastebuds, trickling deceptively sweet down his throat. The taste of their equality, of shared violence, focus, humor, vulnerability. Of how no one’s ever understood his darkness like her. 

“Stick, she’s dying!”

His heart is pounding hollow, and he can’t tell if it’s guilt, or grief, or adrenaline, or love.

“You're not gonna die, you hear me? Elektra, look at me. Hey, hey, focus on me. Breathe. Breathe.”

After Stick’s given her the antidote, he sits with hand pressed to forehead, fighting back even a sting in his eyes. He doesn’t need Stick’s the-mind-controls-the-body shit right now.

He resents being dragged into confronting this, the way he can’t seem to hate her for what she’s done to him. The way these feelings have been lurking in his hollows, in his shadowy places, ready to spring out and accost him when he’s vulnerable. 

But gradually, as he sits, the hollows begin to fill with different memories, their sweetness painful but not venomous. Foggy, laughing as Matt attacks the mitts. Claire, sympathetic over coffee, as he talks through ash and poison. Karen spitting alcohol all over her blouse. His arm around Foggy’s waist, head heavy on his shoulder.

Real love, real friendship. People who are repentant when they wrong him, not just sorry. He still doesn’t know what his heart is pounding with, but he doesn't need to. If that hollow feeling is love, it’s a love from his poisoned memories, halting his growth. 

The lines between him and Elektra sharpen and brighten. Matt swallows down the poison. It’s subsiding now, and other memories, safer ones, are taking its place. Memories of the monster she saw in him. Memories of melting into her, of how he vowed never to do it again. 

He feels himself begin to solidify.

* * *

Elektra’s injury couldn’t have come at a worse time— he’s supposed to be cross-examining Castle tomorrow. But he can’t leave Elektra alone with Stick, who kills or discards anyone no longer useful to him.

He picks up the phone. 

“Everything okay?” Foggy sounds anxious and half-asleep. “You never call this early. Late. Earlate.”

He needs to be a good friend— to practice telling Foggy the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. And he needs reinforcements, needs a reminder that someone will be there when he pulls himself out of this. 

“Elektra and I went up against the Yakuza,” he says without preamble, “and she nearly died.” 

A fumbling noise. “Shit.”

“She’s recovering now, but I can't leave her alone with Stick.”

“Stick’s there  _ too _ ? Matt—”

“I don’t have time to talk,” he interrupts. “But I didn’t want to leave you in the dark again, and I… I could use your help. Cover for me in tomorrow’s trial? You know the material more than well enough. I can try to make it, but… she might die, Fogs.”

A silence on the other end of the line. “Fine,” he says stiffly, in a tone that implies things are very much not fine. “But I hope you know she doesn’t deserve what you’re giving her.”

“I know. And you deserve much more. I’m sorry, Fogs. And I’m grateful.”

He doesn’t think Foggy intends him to hear it, but as he hangs up the phone, he hears Foggy mutter, “Heard that one before.”

He feels cold for the first time in days. He’s doing his best, reaching out to Foggy, and Foggy has taken a step backwards into hurt and suspicion, until he’s just out of reach again.

* * *

  
  


Elektra pulls through. Once he’s sure she’s stable enough that Stick won’t try to put her out of her misery, he rushes to the courthouse, arriving just in time to watch Castle rave at the jury, body contorted with fury and pulse quick with deception.

Foggy’s completely silent afterwards. Outwardly calm, but so much angry sweat and cortisol is spreading through the air that Matt’s half-surprised he isn’t punching a wall. He stalks down the hallway of the courthouse towards a room that’s frequently abandoned this time of day. Matt follows. He thinks Foggy is expecting that.

Concerningly, it’s still unlocked— lax security for the trial of one of the most hated, dangerous men the city has ever seen. But helpful right now.

“Someone got to him,” Matt says, the moment they’ve closed the door.

“Was he lying? About the shit he said on the stand?” There’s none of the warmth of sunlight in Foggy’s voice. A cold snap.

“No. But he was hiding something.” Not-lying doesn’t mean telling the truth.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d cross-examined him like you were supposed to.”

The bitter accusation in the voice sets him on edge, and he focuses furiously on keeping his tone even, soothing. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. You had my notes, you’re highly skilled—”

“But I can’t get in his head like you can,” Foggy says. 

“I checked with you. You  _ said _ you could handle it if I stayed home.” It sounds petulant, accusatory. And it  _ is _ . He’d gone out of his way to be a good partner, to be transparent, to not leave Foggy in the lurch. This is the thanks he gets.

”I shouldn't have to handle it!” He throws his hands in the air. “After our last conversation, I was starting to believe we were gonna be okay. That you cared enough to be there when I needed you. But you were too hung up on your goddamn ex, like always. I’m never gonna come first against her.”

“You saying I should have left her to die?”

“Of course not! But you didn’t have to play nursemaid! You could’ve taken her to a hospital!”

“There wasn’t time. The poison acted fast— her whole body was shutting down. Stick knew how to fix it. And the Yakuza would have found her at the hospital. She would’ve been dead before morning.” He starts to pace. “I don’t like it, but taking her to my place bought her time to recover.”

“And when she’s recovered, you're sending her away where she belongs, right?" When Matt doesn’t say anything, he shakes his head. "Thought not. You still let her run your life, even though she’s terrible to you."

Matt laughs, the sound raw in his throat, and turns to face him. “Oh, now we’re giving opinions on each other’s exes? Because I distinctly remember you telling me I gave up the right to have one about Marci.” Foggy’s scorn is making something twist in him, ugly and defensive.

“Marci gave me regular sad breakup feelings! Elektra broke you in half!” 

He’s tired of it. Of the way Matt’s pain is real and Foggy’s never is. “She makes you feel inadequate. That’s _not_ regular sad breakup feelings. But you expect me to keep my mouth shut, even though you’re not happy with her.” 

“I  _ am _ happy with her!” Voice raised, a little too insistent.

“You can’t lie to me, Foggy. I can read your heartbeat.” He should stop there. He’s not even supposed to be reading heartbeats right now. But he’s better qualified than anyone to give this opinion. “I know what your happy and self-confident feels like. I've  _ felt  _ it, up close and personal.” He steps forward, until he’s standing close enough to feel Foggy’s breath against his face. “You’ve never been that confident while you were dating her.”

A ragged breath. “Oh,  _ screw you _ , Matt.” Anger and devastation pour into his voice. “You said me being into you didn’t bug you. That you wouldn’t hold it against me. But every time it wins you an argument, every time you want to change my mind about something, you throw it in my face.”

“This is the first time I’ve even brought it up since law school!”

“You didn’t have to  _ mention _ it last time to get your point across!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Really gonna play that game? Fine. You make it clear you’re not interested in a repeat performance. I confront you about your vigilante shit. When it looks like I’m about to leave over it,  _ then  _ you suddenly get your bi-curiosity back?” His voice is trembling. “I wasn’t gonna abandon you during a rough anniversary, Matt, I’m not that kind of friend. You could've asked me to stay. You didn’t need to convince me with your tongue.”

For a moment he can’t even process what Foggy’s saying, it’s so completely divorced from reality. Then when he does, revulsion oozes over him. “Convince you— ? How could you even  _ think  _ that?”

“Easily,” comes the immediate, wrenching response. 

“On what basis? Name one time,  _ one _ other time in our entire friendship when I did something and didn’t  _ mean _ it.”

There’s a long, confused silence. Foggy’s heart begins to beat stricken, so stricken that Matt wonders if there’s something he’s forgotten, somehow. A counterexample.

“You… meant to kiss me?” It’s spoken tentatively, like Foggy can’t think of another explanation to fit the outburst and doesn’t understand its relevance. Like he doesn’t want to understand what else Matt could mean.

He doesn’t  _ get _ to misunderstand this one. Not after what he’s just accused Matt of. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.” When Foggy opens his mouth to object, or maybe protest, he enunciates clearly, “But when I kissed you, I meant  _ every goddamn second of it _ .”

Foggy lifts his hand and presses it over his mouth. Heat begins to drain from his face, his breath is shuddering. For the very first time since Matt met him, Foggy Nelson seems to have run out of things to say.

He shifts his hand off his mouth, though he doesn’t move it from his face. “Translating here.” He worries at his bottom lip. “You’re saying... you wanted to kiss me? You kissed me because you wanted me?” It’s flat, like he’s speaking a foreign language and doesn’t understand its sentence structure.

All this time keeping this a secret, and when it finally comes out, he’s too angry to even care. “ _ How _ is this a surprise? I said you were the only thing I’d wanted since Elektra!”

“Wanted! Past tense! You turned me down every time after that, every time!” 

_ I needed more _ , his mind supplies, and he almost says it, but his mouth clamps shut. It’s  _ wrong _ , he  _ won’t _ say it, because its implications are wrong. Foggy’s enough. Foggy’s always been enough. It’s Matt who’s broken. 

“I was confused, Foggy,” he says, softer. “And you deserved better than that. But when I’m broken down, I’m not good at keeping track of what you deserve.”

All the muscles of Foggy’s face slide into blank stillness. “You  _ wanted  _ me.” His voice is small and shocked, like he doesn’t know what to make of the revelation.

“Yeah.” Shame constricts his abdomen and hunches his shoulders. “Sorry.”

He presses the heel of his hand into his temple, rakes his fingernails through his hair. “Why are you apologizing for  _ that _ ?”

A miserable thumb against his eyelid. This memory is indelible, too. “Because it disgusted you. You told me something was seriously wrong with me for kissing you, and you meant it.”

“Matt… no.” He covers his eyes entirely with his hand. “I wasn't disgusted because you kissed me. I was disgusted because I thought you were trying to manipulate me.” His voice goes hoarse. “I was disgusted that I wasn’t strong enough to hate it.”

The words register, but they slide out of Matt’s ears, again and again. He can’t keep them in his mind. They don’t make sense.

Matt listens to air siphon into Foggy’s lungs, press out, until finally, Foggy unshields his face. Rests that hand cautiously on Matt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for taking all that out on you. And I’m… shit, Matt.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry for assuming what you meant instead of asking. For holding onto that for months. I just couldn’t think of another explanation,” he says, almost pleadingly. “Nothing that made sense.”

Foggy’s words are still slipping from his mind, but the shape of them is starting to coalesce.

Foggy didn’t hate it when Matt kissed him. The kiss that had been almost perfect, that he put  _ everything  _ of himself into, Matt and the Devil alike. The parts he had no right to touch Foggy with. Foggy didn’t hate it when they touched him, not even when he thought it wasn’t real.

But that doesn’t make sense.

A slow cascade of memories he hasn’t been paying close enough attention to. Foggy burning for the man in the ring, heart beating deception as he explained why. Claire’s reaction to him, reminding him so much of Foggy’s. Foggy’s moan as Matt twisted memories of Elektra into his skin. His writhing gasp as Matt pinned him against the desk. 

_ I’m not afraid of you, Matt. I’m not gonna be afraid of you. _

“You didn’t hate it?” Now it’s his turn to form his mouth into words that feel like an alien language. “The way I kissed you?”

Foggy’s voice goes rough. “If I’d hated it, I wouldn’t have kissed you back, Matt.”

It isn’t beyond a reasonable doubt. Not even close. But all the evidence points to Foggy having seen the same thing in Matt that Claire did, long before Matt knew it existed. Having been _interested_ in the same thing Claire was.

Wanting Foggy the way Matt does, the specific way he does, might have been  _ welcomed _ . 

Might even be welcome now. Foggy’s heart has accelerated, and not from anger or fear. It sounds like it did on Thanksgiving, when Matt sat with him on the bed. 

But Foggy’s with Marci now. And their relationship still isn’t strong enough yet to broach these kinds of questions.

He shields his own face, and spends all of his effort, all of his strength, to keep the salt in his eyes from spilling, the vines choking his throat from making their way out. “Hindsight is 20/20.”

Foggy’s smile is shaky, in a literal sense. The corners of his mouth are fiercely vibrating to keep it from crumbling. “Yours is more like... 0/150. Superpowered, but nonexistent.”

It’s a weak joke. He can’t blame Foggy. None of this feels funny to him either. 

Foggy brings his hand to his cheek, another self-soothing motion, but a thoughtful one. He cocks his head like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “I’ve got a follow-up question, but I’m not neutral on the answer. Are you comfortable with me asking it?”

_ No _ , his heart says. No more questions. Reliving this part of his past, having to rethink everything from the last nine months, is overwhelming him, and, selfish as it is, he can’t take the prospect of rejection right now, or even acceptance.

With the thinnest, most tentative hand, he draws a bold line between them. “No. I’m not.”

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. Ordinarily, he thinks Foggy might be hurt, suspicious, but his heartbeat, the smell of his skin, are relieved. His cortisol levels actually go down. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he says, heart beating truth. “It means a lot that you told me.”

* * *

After that, the way Foggy touches Matt changes.

He’d avoided initiating physical contact since the Thanksgiving debacle, and when it had been necessary, it’d been reserved. But he’s done a 180 back to the lingering, suggestive touches Matt recognizes from early in their relationship. Touches that he can’t stop himself from leaning into, from returning, even as horror still invades him at the assumptions Foggy made. He still can’t make himself turn them down.

Foggy’s touching Matt like he wants to provoke a reaction. Matt isn’t sure he  _ knows _ that, and he’s not sure which idea is more intimidating. That he’s aware of what he’s doing, and he’s trying to gauge how much Matt wants him. Or that he’s doing this by accident. That he doesn’t recognize the pull between them, that he’s just touching Matt for the same reason Matt couldn’t stop touching Foggy for months: because what he’s feeling is spilling uncontrollably into his hands. 

Whatever the reason for the change, Matt  _ is _ reacting. Down to his subconscious, down to his dreams.

_ The heat of Foggy’s kiss-bitten mouth encourages him forward. _

_ His hands close around Foggy’s throat. “I want,” he says. Falters, even in dreams. But Foggy sighs into the touch and tilts his head back, exposing more soft skin, more vulnerability.  _

_ “Go ahead,” he says. “I trust you.” He lifts his own hands and clasps them against Matt’s, encouraging him to squeeze tighter. _

He wakes up, achingly hard and pulse racing, uncertain how guilty to feel.

* * *

Stick might have had better luck explaining this to him as a nine-year-old. Kids are much more inclined to believe mystical bullshit.

“So you’re part of a secret organization, fighting another secret organization, whose members are ninjas? And they’ve brought in a ninja weapon that could destroy the city?”

“Right.”

“Why would ninjas be working with the Yakuza? Why would the Yakuza be interested in a weapon to destroy a city they want to control the underbelly of? You’ve fed me a lot of crap over the years, Stick, but this is exceptional.”

“Don’t believe it if you want, kid. But they’re gonna destroy the city. If you’re too much of a pussy to help, Ellie will.”

“Is that why you recruited her— to manipulate me into rejoining you? Because she was a weakness of mine?”

He barks out the cruel, familiar laugh he uses to teach Matt a lesson. “Kid, I  _ made  _ her your weakness. She was on the team long before she met you.”

* * *

The mind controls the body. The body controls your enemies. Fear makes you lose control of both, Stick said. You have to go without it.

Matt learned to ignore his fears, a lesson he curses Stick for. Being a man without fear is refusing to believe life-saving instincts. In the wrong context, ignoring fear gets you hurt. You trust predators. You take irrevocable damage.

Elektra is sprawled on the bed, body temperature lower than usual. Exuding the vulnerability he felt on that car roof, so long ago. She’s always had that vulnerability that makes him want to stand between her and her pain. 

“Was it fate when we met?” he says from the doorway. “Or was I a mission?”

“Mission.” She stretches. “Stick trained me a long time, like he trained you. He's not a sentimental man, but he wanted you back.” 

Nothing’s ever felt as real as Foggy; there’s no way to know if anything about Elektra was real. He should never have trusted her.  Trust makes you weak, Stick said. 

“He wanted you to forget about law, your friends, your city.” Her arms are trembling as she hauls herself up to sitting. “He thought I could distract you.”

Elektra was a lesson designed to drive the point home.  Matt fell so fast, so completely, chose her over everything, because she was custom-designed to provoke that reaction. To weaken him.

“He was right,” he says.

But failure to trust others makes you weaker. Doing everything alone, never having backup, is a liability. It made him vulnerable to Elektra, made him so fragile that an emotional connection could shatter him.

“He wasn’t right. You distracted me from the mission, Matthew. You made me want to be good. To be the person you saw in me. I fell in love with you.” Truth. She really believes it.

“Stick told me about some secret Japanese organization,” he prompts instead of responding. He feels her stiffen anyway. She always did see through him.

The poisoned memories and emptiness she left him with, the bold lines she burned through— that’s not something you do to someone you love.  The blood price he paid for her affection, the self-sacrifice upon her altar.  And despite Stick’s efforts to train fear out of him, he’s afraid to go back there, to revert to the person she thinks she loves.

Real bravery isn’t ignoring fear— it’s listening to it. Letting it teach you who to trust. Pacing alongside its footsteps, and never once letting it overtake you. 

* * *

Foggy has been all tensed shoulders and hostility since he caught sight of their new client— someone Foggy knew from law school. Not someone he liked, clearly.

The problem is, likable or not, Mr. Blake didn't do it.

“I'm  _ not  _ interested in rescuing his ass from a bad situation again,” Foggy says, once they’re in the hallway. 

“Do you hate him enough to send him to prison for a crime he didn’t commit?” Matt outlines the case while Foggy listens, tapping a toe uncomfortably. 

When he offers to take over if Foggy needs to recuse himself, Foggy rubs his forehead. “Ugh. I’m still such a sucker for your justice crusades, Murdock,” he says. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But you owe me.”

“Sure,” he says, brushing a hand along his forearm. “Cash in that IOU any time you like.” It’s meant to be an innocent quip, but it comes out rough. Promising. 

Foggy’s heart speeds with surprised, sudden interest. “Matt—”

He shakes his head and drops his hand. “Let’s go talk to him.” He’s getting sloppy, what he’s feeling is leaking out more blatantly, more frequently.

The slip distracts him when he excuses himself to the restroom, enough that he stops monitoring Foggy momentarily, and when he comes back, there are salt streaks across Foggy’s face. Close enough to a painful memory that he has to brace himself against it.

“What was that?” he says at the coffee shop, afterwards, over a cup of coffee and what Foggy assures him is a sickeningly patriotic 4th of July themed cake slice. “You seemed upset when I got back.”

“I wasn’t upset.” To an extent, Matt knew that— the pained tension of this morning had mostly drained out of Foggy by the time he got back to the office. But hearing it is still a relief. “You could… smell my tears or some shit, couldn’t you.” 

He tenses. “Are you upset about that?”

Another head shake. “I should be used to it by now, but it’s still weird, not to have any privacy.” He shrugs. “They weren’t bad tears, Matt. He said some stuff I really needed to hear right now, that’s all.”

Truth. “I’m glad, then,” he says sincerely. 

“How about you, buddy? How are you doing?”

He shifts in his chair. He’d actually forgotten. “Yesterday, Elektra told me she was in love with me.” 

Foggy stills. “Wow. First off, I can’t believe you checked on me first when you had news like  _ that _ .” Foggy always checks on him first. Matt was overdue to take a turn. ”You doing okay?” 

“Surprisingly so.”

“Good. What are you gonna do about it?” Matt can tell he’s trying to be neutral, encouraging, but his pulse is flickering with dismay.

“I didn’t respond. I changed the subject.” 

A faint exhale of relief. “Wow. Dick move, but she kinda deserves it.”

“If I’d said no, she might have tried to argue me into it.” He doesn’t really believe that. She didn’t try to argue him into telling her about Foggy— he just did. “Or I might have tried to argue me into it.” If he’d reacted overtly, if he’d acknowledged her, the vulnerability would have sucked him back in. “And I, I don’t want that, Foggy.”

“You sure?” he says softly. “ ‘Cause you’re doing some weird stuff for someone who’s not interested, like ditching court to make sure she’s okay, and… speaking to her at all, after what she did to you.”

“I’m sure,” he says. “I know what I want, and it’s not her.” Too revealing— he hurries forward past any questions Foggy might have. Foggy’s pulse races anyway.

* * *

He tries not to feel guilty when, at their next coffee meeting, Foggy abruptly says,

“Things with Marci are over. For good this time.”

“I’m sorry.” He is, he thinks. He knows he should be.

“Don’t be,” Foggy says. “It was time. She felt... safe, clear. We understood each other. But she wasn’t good to me, and I wasn't good to her. I’d rather be alone than keep messing up with the people I care about.”

“You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

He’s quiet. “Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what you should or shouldn’t do,” he says. “Sometimes, the choice makes you instead of the other way around. And you’ve just got to accept it.”

He thinks of vines, blossoming under his skin until he couldn’t ignore them anymore. “I get that.”

“Speaking of, now that it’s not such a touchy subject… what was up with you hating Marci?” His voice is light, but blood is pulsing fast through his arteries. “It started before we were even dating, and it was weird, dude. She didn’t do anything to you.”

“I didn’t hate her.” Hate is reserved for enemies, people to take down. “I resented her.”

“Which brings me back to: why?” His voice is rising, a tone that’s familiar to Matt from long years of experience. He’s hoping for a specific answer.

The problem is, Matt doesn’t know  _ which _ specific answer, and the real answer is uncomfortable, adjacent to a thorny set of topics he’s not sure their relationship has regrown enough to address yet. “You know I never liked her, and that I felt like she wasn’t good to you,” he hedges, and Foggy’s heart rate drops, abdominal muscles tighten. Disappointment, which he’d anticipated, and, confusingly, guilt. Like…

Like Foggy knows that having a preferred answer is affecting Matt. That it’ll make Matt shut down or tailor his truth to it instead of sharing what he wants to. Foggy wants Matt’s preferred answer  _ more _ than he wants his own, just like he did after their fight about the kiss.

New growth breaks through the ash and the cold. Foggy had been telling the  _ truth _ , months ago. His top priority is knowing Matt.

The teetering of the scales, the lurching uncertainty of the last several months, halts. His sensory field narrows. The scales rebalance, and he’s once more weightless at their fulcrum.

“But mostly, I was… needy, after Elektra.” Foggy’s heartbeat skitters, startled, and then a slow, warm delight spreads over his skin like sunlight. “You were my only real human connection, and I got attached to being the center of your attention. Too attached. I handled it poorly when you shifted that to Marci. Didn’t help that she reminded me of Elektra.”

“Ouch.”

He nods instead of wincing. “If it matters, I apologized to her for that.”

“It does. Thanks. And… thank you for telling me. That couldn’t have been easy to admit to.” He reaches across the table and settles his hand on Matt’s. Not a quick, affectionate touch, not just a lingering flirtation. It’s open, sincere, questioning— if Matt were to move his hand back, he doesn’t think Foggy would take it personally.

He doesn’t move his hand. Foggy’s heart beats just a little faster. 

“Makes you feel any better,” he says, deceptively casual, “Marci wasn’t happy with how much attention I gave you, either, so I guess the resentment was mutual. Also, uh, our unhealthy attachment.”

The sounds of the world around him fade further into a pleasant blur, into the warmth of Foggy’s skin. “It’s messed up that that means a lot to me, isn’t it.”

“Pretty much.” His voice is wry. “But me too, buddy.”

* * *

Even with the rebalancing of the fulcrum, the regrowth, the direction their touches are moving, pain and resentment is a suffocating residue. Heavy like quicksand.

He’d thought forgiveness was a fight to surface for air. But he wasn’t right. Forgiveness doesn’t mean he’s fought his way through emotions to something clean and clear. Sometimes it means staying down, immersed in quicksand, and learning to breathe through it.

* * *

“I should be doing better than this,” he says. 

It’s another one of the bad days, where each of his demands for an explanation is intercepted by Elektra’s laughter. Where the world seems cold and the air smells of champagne.

“I keep thinking I’m done reacting to her, that I’ve changed enough to move forward. That I won’t fall for her manipulations. But the way we interact, it’s barely changed since the day I met her.” 

“We all get stuck in patterns with people,” Foggy says, stirring more sugar into his coffee. “You’re not alone there.” He drums his fingers next to his coffee cup, pinging the saucer with a fingernail. “You know, people talk about a fresh start for a reason.”

“You still think I should cut her out,” he says.

“Yeah.” He’s not even tense about the statement— his shoulders are resolutely straight. “She’s done you enough damage, dude. You’ve learned what you can from her, she’s just gonna keep dragging you down, and you’re not even clear on what you two are trying to accomplish. You deserve better than that.” Softer, “I want better than that for you.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

“Why not?” No judgment, just warm, concerned curiosity about one of Matt’s most painful truths.

He sets the coffee cup down on the table. Tears open a sugar packet of his own, dumps it into the coffee, even though he’s not really in the mood. Takes a sip without really tasting it. It scalds his tongue.

“How can I cut her out when I don’t know what in me  _ isn’t _ Elektra?” The Murdock boys have the Devil in them, and he’s always been angry, impulsive. But before Elektra, he didn’t blaze like he does now. He never felt kindling under his skin, incinerating him until he crumbles like charcoal. “I put on the mask after she left. My preferences, my thoughts, she built so many of them. And even you, Fogs. You came into my life because she left it.”

“Hey, no, absolutely not,” Foggy says with distressed sincerity. “Elektra gave us a chance to meet, that’s all. We put in all the hard work of being friends ourselves. And same with the mask. Even if she gave you that rage, you’re the one who channels it into…” he lowers his voice. “Saving lives. Meting out justice to the baddies.”

“As for thoughts, you’re the most independent thinker I know. I thought that even before we were friends. You convince everyone to think the way you do, not the other way around. Preferences… I wanna argue with you there, buddy, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Preferences like what?” 

There’s only one kind of preference he’s unsure of her role in. One he never meant to tell Foggy about. He realizes his mouth has been hanging open and snaps it shut.  “Nothing important.” 

“You know I’m just more curious now, right?” It’s a sign of how far they’ve come that he’s teasing about it, not hurt. “Spill, Murdock.”

“I’d rather not,” he says, and when Foggy does flash hurt this time, he adds, “I’m not comfortable sharing this publicly.” He’s not comfortable sharing it at all, not with Foggy, but he’s not going to say that after how hard Foggy’s been working. This isn’t Foggy’s fault.

“I get that.” Foggy lowers his voice, quiet enough that no one around should be able to hear them. “How do you feel about me guessing? That way you don’t need to  _ say _ anything, you can just nod if I’ve hit on it.” He winces. “Sorry, I’m getting overenthusiastic. You can tell me to shut up and we’ll talk about it later if you’d really rather do this in private. Or,” he adds wistfully, “or never. I know I still don’t have any right to your secrets.”

There’s no way to say ‘no’ without telling Foggy he doesn’t trust him, and that’s not true anymore. He  _ does _ trust Foggy. He wants Foggy to know that.

He does trust Foggy not to judge him, and this is probably the best way it could come up. Where it’s not directed at Foggy himself. Where it’s just… information about Matt, that Foggy can know in case it’s relevant to him. Just in case.

He feels queasy with nerves.

“We can go ahead,” he says, haltingly. “But, uh. Can I monitor your heart? It’s… personal, in a way that might be strange given our history, and I want to make sure I’m not upsetting you.”

“Sure, buddy.” The way Matt’s flushing seems to finally clue him in. “Aha!  _ Personal _ personal, gotcha,” he whispers. “Well, uh, whatever it is, doesn’t really matter where it came from, as long as nobody gets hurt.”

“Mmm.” Matt squirms a little. Foggy’s breath stutters.

“...non-consensually. And as long as… am I really having the safe, sane, and consensual conversation right now?” he says wonderingly.

It’s almost an admission, this echo of what Claire taught Matt. Concepts unlikely to spring to mind this quickly without being personally relevant. He takes a breath and a risk. “You don’t need to, Foggy. I’ve uh. Already had it.”

“ _ Well _ . Uh.” He fidgets. “Wow. I understand why you felt awkward talking about this in public. But no worries on judgment there. I, uh. Get it.” That  _ is _ an admission.

He feels frozen. “I didn’t know that. That you.” He breathes. “It didn’t come up with us.”

There’s heat suffusing his face. “Would’ve been kinda… extreme for a one-night stand with a dude you barely knew,” he says. “I was there to help you. Besides, it’s not like it’s the only thing I’m into— I dabble. My main preference is making people happy.” True. Actually true, how is Foggy even  _ real.  _

Matt folds his hands and leans forward over the table. “But it is that. A preference, for you?” He’s aware that this is getting off topic, weirdly intense.

So is Foggy. He shifts in his chair, and his hand drifts up to his collar, as if to fiddle with it uncomfortably. But he doesn’t. He sighs and lowers it to the table. “All right, fair, I made you say awkward things in public, it’s my turn.” He chews on his lip, and his heart rate picks up. “Yeah, it is. I like it a lot, and the people I like best tend to be into, um. Hurting me.” Muscles creak one corner of his mouth upwards. “I guess I have a type.”

Oh God. Oh  _ God _ , Matt can barely breathe. 

Foggy’s heart is racing too fast— anxiety, adrenaline, attraction— for that to be a casual statement. And he knows Matt is reading it. Matt has permission to know this.

Even though it’s too revealing, even though it’s  _ not _ something he can take back or pretend is neutral information-gathering, he can’t resist the follow-up. The last dot he hopes to connect.

“That preference,” he says quietly. “Is that why you like watching me fight?”

A shocked adrenaline spike. Deep embarrassment, skin flaming hotter than it has this entire conversation.  _ Confirmation _ . The world feels crystalline, ice shards breaking under his feet.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ Sometimes I hate your mystical mindreading powers.”

He can’t hold himself back anymore. He reaches a trembling hand across the table and slides it under Foggy’s. A point of connection. “Does it help,” he says, low, “that I’ve never been gladder to have them?”

Foggy tilts his head down at their joined hands. Back to Matt. His heart is still beating uptempo, and he doesn’t squeeze Matt’s hand, but he doesn’t remove his, either. “Is this... something we should talk about?”

“Please. Preferably in private.” From Foggy, a surge of anxiety and lust, all bundled together. “I didn’t mean…” He closes his mouth on the words. They’re trying to be fully truthful, now. “Didn’t entirely mean it like that. I meant I’d rather not give the whole cafe a chance to overhear.”

“Don’t think I’m going to ignore that ‘entirely.’ “ The anxiety hasn’t dissipated at all, but there’s a tentative, happy amusement behind it. “I can leave my schedule free tomorrow.”

He wants to talk about it that soon,  _ badly _ does, but it’s the last week of August, and memories of last year, of Foggy turning down his offer of a Friendsgiving, are still venomous. “Could we wait until the weekend? I know I just sprung something on you, but I really don’t want to miss another one of our traditions.” If their conversation goes badly, he’s going to need a lot to get him through the month.

“I don’t either.” A slightly wobbly smile. “Okay. We can talk after our New Year’s celebration. But after this, you’re bringing the booze.”

“Don’t I always?”

“You’re bringing  _ extra _ booze,” he says. “I have a feeling we’re gonna need it.” 

* * *

He leaves the cafe and walks directly to an urgent care clinic to get tested.

It’s an impulsive, nonsensical decision. He’s had few partners over the last several years, none that he’s concerned about, and he’s  _ not _ presuming anything’s going to happen between him and Foggy. But Foggy had asked about it, their night together, and he doesn’t want to give Foggy any reason to doubt he’s serious. The money, the minor inconvenience, the unnerving stab of the butterfly needle, they’re worth it.

Most of the staff are pleasant, but the woman at the front desk refuses to read him the release of information form or provide him with a Braille copy. “If you needed an explanation, why didn’t you bring someone?” she says, with an irritated huff. 

“I didn’t want to share my private health information with my colleagues,” he says with a bland smile, “as is my right. Are you struggling with the ADA requirements for people with vision impairments? If you need legal help getting in compliance, here’s my card.”

They’re a lot more helpful, after that. No one asks why the blind man wants to pick up a paper copy of his results as soon as they come in. They just take urine and blood samples and let him go.

* * *

The planning session to take down the ninjas (he firmly refuses to believe in the Hand) has devolved into a shouting session.

“Let them return to their nest and they’ll come back with an army,” she says.

“Their nest? These are people, Elektra, not animals.”

“I promise you,” she says grimly, “they don’t see you that way.”

“It doesn’t matter how they see us. We’re not animals either. We don’t fight Stick’s way, we don’t kill our enemies.”

“We do whatever it takes to save the city. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“Not at that cost. Not at the cost of our souls. Killing is irreparable. It’s a wound in the world that never heals.”

“I paid that cost long ago, Matthew. I’m not the person you expect me to be.”

Four years ago, he would have dismissed her, let her keep burning through warning signs. This time, he doesn’t. His instincts, his fears, are telling him: stop. Listen. This honesty is important, the kind you ask for Neptune for.

“Tell me.”

Her heart beats faster, like she hadn’t expected him to follow up on the hint. Maybe she hadn’t— maybe she, too, keeps catching flashes of the people they used to be, hiding in the corners of every room. “The first time I took a life I was 12 years old. I did it of my own volition.” Her voice is an even, burning whisper. “I wasn't saving another. I wasn't even protecting myself. I did it because I needed to know that I could.”

“And you enjoyed it.” It’s not a question, and the strangest thing is, it’s not even a surprise. Her adrenaline had spiked at Roscoe Sweeney’s. She’d liked the idea of killing him. “You said you wanted to be good.”

“I do.”

“But you don’t want to stop killing?”

“This is who I am, Matthew,” she says tiredly. “I’ll do what I must to keep The Hand from infiltrating your city.”

The urge to forgive her, even for this, strains at him. But everything inside her screams against his instincts, and he’s finally learning to trust them. They told him to hold his breath with Elektra or choke on ash; they told him to breathe Foggy in like oxygen. Every day they save his life through dodged fists and blocked chokeholds. 

And they’re telling him Elektra will unrepentantly reoffend. She’ll keep lying, killing, destroying everything in her path. She wants to be seen as good but doesn’t want to  _ earn _ it. 

She hasn’t earned his trust or his forgiveness. And he doesn’t  _ want _ to forgive her. For as long as he’s known her, Matt has thought of Elektra in metaphors about nature’s wrath. But she’s not really a force of nature— just a small, petty human being, drawn impossibly large by the scars she’s left on his life. He wants to direct the fight under his skin elsewhere.

“Then this is where we part ways,” he says.

He  _ can _ direct the fight under his skin elsewhere.

“That’s it?” She doesn’t sound angry, but she does sound wounded. Probably she is, to behave the way she does. “The Hand will decimate your city.”

He draws sharp, bold lines between them for, he hopes, the last time.

“That’s it, Elektra. I don’t need you to fight my wars anymore.”

He's not sure Foggy’s right, that letting her go will mean he’ll stop reliving how she’s hurt him. Maybe the Elektra from four years ago will always be there in his mind, flickering around doorways as he walks through them— maybe he’ll always wonder if she turned him into who he is. But letting go of his need to forgive her, he can let his lungs clear, breathe in a world she’s no longer the core of. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, The Hand makes very little sense with any of the histories of East Asia


	13. Truths

September arrives. 

Every year, it arrives a little less loudly. The void threatens in a whisper rather than a shout. This year he’s on edge, but there’s a specific, present reason for it. There’s so much at stake this New Year.

When the weekend arrives and their dinner with it, he prepares for battle. 

He digs out the t-shirt he’d had on the night they spent together. It’s shrunken and worn and presumptuous, but eventually, he shrugs it over his head.

He picks up tamales and pickled herring. Foggy’s new apartment is further from the bodegas and specialty stores that stock them. He stacks them into a bag and adds his test results in a manila envelope along the side. And as promised, he packs not one, but two bottles of Macallan to share, though a significant part of him wants to leave them behind. He wants Foggy to take everything he says as soberly as he means it.

When he gets up the elevator, Foggy’s partially blocking the doorway, and his heart rate is elevated. 

He steps out of the way after an awkward moment. “Come on in, Matt.”

Almost everything Foggy smells of is unscented— body wash, shampoo, conditioner, a thoughtful and _hopeful_ gesture that touches Matt, even as he almost wishes Foggy hadn’t made it. The comforting smell of cinnamon and vanilla is fainter after Foggy showers. He hasn’t changed the hand soap, though, a familiar detail Matt relishes.

He hands the bag to Foggy and steps past him. “I like the new digs,” he says. It feels strange, to be on unfamiliar ground for this, but it’s appropriate.

“I wish they’d dug deeper. Could use the extra room.” Upturned muscle vibration. “I see we’re still keeping our local Kosher grocery store in business.” Foggy pulls the jarred herring from among the corn husks and oil-soaked paper.

“You said to make it a tradition.” 

“I wasn’t specifically thinking the herring. But you know what? I’m the one who bought it again last year. I brought this tradition on us.”

They banter, they laugh, and it feels almost normal. Almost like they’ve gone back in time to the comfortable ease of their relationship. But only almost. 

Foggy has set the kitchen chairs next to each other, not across. When they sit down to their meal, they’re unusually close, elbows almost brushing. Close enough that he can feel the cozy warmth of Foggy’s skin radiating towards him, feel the pull of their attraction. He wants to bask in it, wants to tug Foggy’s hand closer until their body heat and their scents overlap.

Other years he might have reached for it— they haven’t exactly had the clearest of physical boundaries. But the implications right now are different, so he tamps down the craving and tries not to let it leak through.

Foggy sets down his fork. “Why don’t you ever just ask, Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“You keep frowning, then flexing and unflexing your fingers. Then tilting your head the way you do when you’re setting new clients at ease. You’re not fooling me, Matt. You want something and you think it’s gonna upset me. But you never _ask_. Why?” 

Unnervingly accurate. He wonders if this is what Foggy feels like, never being able to hide his heart from Matt. “It doesn’t occur to me that I can,” he says honestly. “That it’s a possibility.” That Foggy’s a possibility, after all those years he forced himself not to consider it.

“Well, you can, buddy. I’d prefer it to you hanging on to all this pointless angst and guilt.”

He nods. And now that he’s trying to say it out loud, it sounds stupid. “Can I hold your hand? Ordinarily I’d just do it, but the implications are different right now, and I don’t want to intrude.”

“Thank you for being considerate. Yeah, you can. And for the record,” he looks at the floor and angles away from Matt, the way he always does when he’s saying something vulnerable, “the implications aren’t all that different. Least not on my end.” A bit of miserable tension.

“Oh?”

“You’ve known me for five years, Matt. Been around my friends, my business associates, my bar hookups, my girlfriends.” He sounds a little tired. “Can you name anyone else I let touch me the way you do? Anyone else I touch the way I touch you?”

He’s never considered it before. And try as he might, he can’t think of anyone. “I thought you were just being affectionate,” he scrapes out.

He shakes his head. “When I’m being affectionate, I give people a hug. I don’t sit there for hours, staring them in the face, while they put their hand on my knee.”

That makes it sound _obvious_ . “I wouldn’t know about the staring—”

“Zip it, Matt.” There’s a wan smile in his voice. “Point is, on my end I’ve been losing my mind about our ambiguously platonic hand-holding for years, which my sister has _not_ stopped making fun of me for, by the way, and this is going to make exactly zero difference.”

“All— all right. Thanks, Fogs.”

He takes Foggy’s hand. After a moment, he laces their fingers together, more intimate than he’d usually dare, and he’s rewarded by a hitched breath, by Foggy’s skin heating. He runs his thumb absently along the side of Foggy’s, the heat flares and redistributes, Foggy’s heart beats to a rolling boil. They eat in unusually subdued silence.

Midway through the meal, Foggy slips his thumb under Matt’s hand, tracing the line where Matt’s palm meets his fingers. Matt’s breath catches this time. “How do you feel about me doing this, Matt?”

“Good,” he breathes. He clears his throat. “Really good.” 

He can hear the muscles of Foggy’s face squeeze into a small, pleased smile. Foggy keeps shifting the part of his thumb that touches Matt’s hand, the pressure, a soft brush or a grounding caress or a scrape of nail along sensitized skin. It’s overwhelming enough, intimate enough, that Matt puts his fork down, focuses all of his attention on the sensation. 

It builds in intensity until it’s at the limit of Matt's comfortable tolerance, and he curls his thumb around Foggy’s, trapping it in place. They sit motionless, Foggy’s heart pounding almost as quickly as Matt’s own.

_The implications aren’t all that different._ Impulsively, Matt lifts Foggy’s hand to his mouth. Foggy inhales, and Matt offers him a crooked smile. He can change the implications this way, at least. “Is, uh. This okay?” 

He expects a refusal. Doesn’t expect a faint, disbelieving laugh. “What the hell. Go nuts, buddy.”

He’s not going to turn down that permission. He plants a slow kiss onto each finger, along the side of Foggy’s hand, pressing his lips firmly against the yielding skin. He mouths at it to another hitched breath, and, emboldened and very distracted, scrapes his teeth along the base of his thumb. He earns an actual noise this time, a cut-off, faltering sound. It sounds almost like Matt’s name.

His world’s starting to blur from want that feels like need, he’s dizzy and stupid with it, increasingly unsure that Foggy would say no to anything he asks. But he’s here to do this _right_. Clean, unambiguous, no miscommunication to ruin things. 

More reluctantly than he’s done anything in a long time, he pulls their linked hands away from his lips and presses them to the table. ”We go any further down this road and I don’t trust myself to have the conversation I’m here for. Can we talk, please?”

Foggy sighs, and Matt’s not sure if it’s sadness, tension, or desire. “We gonna do this now?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

A slightly bitter laugh. “I wanted to be so much drunker for this.”

It’s a statement of awkwardness, discomfort, and Matt wants him at ease for this conversation. “We’ve got Macallan, and you probably still have some of that Clubtails left,” he offers.

A corner of his mouth vibrates upwards. ”I hope to still have some of that Clubtails left when I die. I hope archaeologists dig up my house in thousands of years and find it intact. The taste might even be improved by fossilization.”

To Matt’s astonishment, Foggy lifts himself out of his chair and shoves his way over to the fridge.

“Fuck it.” He actually pulls out a can of the ancient Clubtails and cracks it open. “Traditional drink of choice for our awkward conversations.” He swigs it. Makes a disgusted noise, which is the least surprising thing he’s done in the last thirty seconds.

Matt lets him drink it in silence, though he pays attention to the smell of his skin, monitors his blood alcohol levels.

Foggy taps on the can with his free hand. “What’s this about, Matt? Hitting on me at the office, whatever that was at the cafe, now this _wildly_ horny dinner touching?”

Words take a long time to emerge from his mouth, because he’d been hiding this for so long that saying it out loud feels like a moral failing. 

“Exactly what it looks like.” He resists the urge to shuffle his feet, shift, anything that makes him look less honest or less resolute. “I’m interested in you, Fogs.”

“Oh.” It’s as much a breath as a statement. “Why now? Just because I’m into the same stuff you are?” Foggy’s clenching his other hand tightly enough around the can that Matt can hear it crunching inward. “‘Cause you’ve given me some real mixed signals over the years, buddy, and I… I can’t keep _throwing_ myself at you.” His voice is pained and brittle. “If you just want someone... available and compatible that way, I’d rather know it now.”

“That’s not it,” he says. Foggy’s shoulders don’t untense, his heart doesn’t slow down. Matt sighs. “But it’s okay that you don’t believe me. I’d find it hard to believe too.”

“Then explain. Convince me.”

“All right.” He twists the fingers of his left hand together. “Sit with me? Like when I told you about Stick?” Foggy standing across the room feels too impersonal for this conversation, too distant. The shitty couch has associations he doesn’t want to carry forward. And he absolutely doesn’t trust himself to handle this properly in the bed. 

Foggy’s heart picks up, and Matt can’t blame him. That night was incredibly intimate, even though nothing overt happened between them. But he nods.

They face the chairs towards each other alongside the kitchen table, and Matt does what he wished he’d done last time— sits closer than is decorous, traps Foggy’s knee between two of his. Foggy inhales, and blood flow and heat tangle through his body.

“Is this okay? Are you comfortable with this?” 

“Between this and the hand-holding... not sure you want me to be this comfortable,” Foggy says, with a self-deprecating honesty.

“I do,” he says, to a startled twitch and another flare. “I like when you feel this way about me.” He doesn’t know how tonight’s going to go, isn’t even sure if they’ll be friends tomorrow, and he wants as much contact, as much palpable interest, as possible to push him past those fears. “I hope you still will when our conversation is over.”

He faces Foggy as squarely as possible, to give him the impression that Matt’s focused on nothing but him. “You’re right. I’ve sent you mixed signals. Let me be clear this time.” He presses his palms to his thighs, leans forward. “I want you.” He infuses the words with all his certainty, with his intent, with the way he’s still disoriented and aching from their hand-holding earlier. “Turning you down has _never_ been about whether I wanted you. It’s been about…” He struggles to find the right words, the ones that will make Foggy understand. “About figuring things out, after Elektra.”

Foggy tilts his head, but doesn’t interrupt.

“My relationship with Elektra was… intense. When I got out of it, I didn’t know how to manage without the adrenaline. And I didn’t get it from our night together. I knew that wasn’t your fault, because Foggy, you’re _spectacular_. Our night together was a gift. If it didn’t work for me, there was a problem with me, not you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Matt—”

“There _was_ something wrong with me,” he interjects. “There still might be. I don’t know why I want to… to hurt people.” The words barely make it out, but if Foggy can talk about this, then Matt has to. “Whether it’s something innate or something Elektra left in me. But finding it helped. Drawing lines around it made it, made it… something I don’t have to harm people with.” 

Matt Murdock is supposed to heal the wounded; the Devil is supposed to avenge them. But they can coexist within the lines he draws. 

“And the lines made it easier to recognize the kind of power Elektra had over me. Helped me move past it.” He feels deeply embarrassed, admitting to all that, but Foggy only nods. 

“For years, I never even considered you could want what I did. I thought you were too good for it. And it wasn’t fair to be involved with you while I needed something different, particularly given how interested you were. That’s why I turned down a repeat performance. Never because I _wanted_ to.”

There’s a long silence. “I figured I screwed up that first night,” Foggy says. “You kept telling me not to treat you like glass, and I didn’t listen.” He breathes in, a ragged, wet noise, and a wave of something that feels horribly like grief pumps through his heart. “God, I regret it, Matt.” He takes a full-on swig of the Clubtails.

“You didn’t screw up,” he says emphatically. “I was emotionally punched out, and I didn’t understand what I wanted. If you’d offered me anything more complicated than you did, I…. I don’t know what I would have done. How I would have reacted.”

Foggy sighs. “I appreciate it, buddy.” But cortisol is still leaking through his skin. His stress about this is chronic, practiced. 

Guilt stings Matt. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why carry that regret alone?” It’s an invasive question, but the unnecessary pain he’s sensing is hard to accept, knowing that Matt could have banished it with a single conversation. 

Foggy shakes his head. “That night, you were broken. You wouldn’t have gone for me if you weren’t. No, don’t try to deny it,” he says, and Matt realizes his mouth was already shaping a protest. “You gave me your trust during a difficult time. I wouldn’t throw it back in your face by complaining, especially about something that was my own fault.”

Noble. But there’s a ping of deception. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Foggy tugs at his collar. “I don’t wanna talk about it. This isn’t the time. But promise I’ll tell you eventually, okay?”

It itches at him, but he nods. “Okay.” He’d be the worst kind of hypocrite if he said no. “But that night meant so much to me, and I hate that you’ve been hurting over it. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Maybe I want you to hurt me.” Foggy’s voice is quiet, but unyielding. Fierce. “Every human relationship comes with hurt. I’ve got baggage and so do you, and the closer we get, the more likely we are to bump into it. I want us to stay close enough to unpack it, not drift apart because we got bruised.”

It takes him a moment to form words around the lump in his throat. “I want that too,” he says, surprised by the strength of it. “I said it'd take a lot for me to stop talking to you, but this year I did, I stopped, and I… I never want to do it again, Fogs. I hated drifting apart from you, and I’d take more than a few bruises to prevent it again.”

That. That’s what he’s been missing. He doesn’t need to have forgiven Foggy yet for the bruises, the assumptions, the strained months of miscommunication. It’s okay that they hurt, that fresh bruises keep blooming on his skin. Bruises fade. Staying close enough to learn the shape of each other’s pain, how to avoid its rough edges, is worth it.

Foggy has always been willing to learn. He’s never stopped trying to understand Matt’s bruises, his scars, his joys. Never stopped trying to connect and communicate. To reach out, to learn to share the same orbit again. 

It’s time Matt reaches back.

“I’m still hurt, and I still don’t know how forgiveness works,” he says. “But I’ve learned, these last few months, how you work. How our interactions work.” He turns his palms up, an intentionally open posture. “And you’ve earned my trust.”

He swallows his fears. His throat feels dry, but the conviction, the rightness of this, floods through him. 

“In that spirit… ask me anything you want to know,” he says. “Neptune.”

Foggy’s eye muscles stretch wide, and slowly, he lowers his can to the table beside him. “Neptune?” he breathes, heart beating wild and hopeful. He scoots in closer, rests his trembling hand on Matt’s leg. “You're giving me Neptune again? On the topic of _anything I want_?”

“Unconditionally,” he says. Foggy’s fierce hope, the naked vulnerability of this, is affecting in ways he didn’t expect. To his embarrassment, faint arousal traces its way through him. “You’ve worked so hard to regain my trust, and I want you to know you have.” 

Foggy is quiet for a long time, breathing unsteady. “Why?” he says finally. “Why do you want me to have it? What do you get out of this?”

Of course Foggy can’t imagine someone with an agenda that parallels his— wanting him to be happy. “I want to be your equal. I know what you’re feeling, and I know when you’re telling me the truth. You deserve the same advantage.” Neptune makes him add for completeness. “And I… I enjoy giving this to you, Foggy. I’ve missed it.” The confusing, embarrassing arousal expands through his bloodstream.

Foggy swallows, a hard, stuck sound, like questions are trying to come out and he can’t figure out which ones to dislodge. 

“You okay if I’m really, really not neutral on the answer to a question?”

“Yes.” He knows, now, that even if Foggy is looking for a specific answer, he’s not going to leave Matt if he doesn’t get it. Or if he does, he’ll come back and they’ll rebuild, stronger than before. “I said you could ask anything, and I meant it.”

Foggy’s head is cocked. He’s examining the evidence, scattered pieces of a puzzle Matt’s made difficult to solve. Trying to find the right question to put them together.

He extricates his knee and stands. Walks around the chair, rests both hands on its back. More blocking behavior, something to stand guard between them. “You’ve talked around this a lot, Matt, but you’ve never straight-out said it. And it’s important to me to get the whole story here.” The ache in his voice makes Matt long to apologize, reach out, atone for the ways he’s messed this up. “In what _way_ are you interested? How exactly do you feel about me?”

He inhales. Simple questions, but they’re revelatory, foundational. He can build something entirely new on them, or destroy anything built on a misunderstanding of their contours. No wonder Foggy had to wall himself off to ask— he’s making himself profoundly vulnerable with this.

Matt wants to share an equal vulnerability, but it’s so much that his hands are chilling, blood is rushing away from his extremities to his heart. “Sure you want those answers? In their entirety? They’re… complicated.” He’s never even fully admitted them to himself.

“Figured they would be,” he says. “I’m sure.” His voice is shaky, but it’s resolute, pulse steady and fast.

“All right.” He concentrates on relaxing the muscles that constrict his blood flow, willing it back to his hands. “But stop me if you don’t want to hear anymore. Okay?”

Foggy nods. Then there are no more excuses Matt can make, no more places to hide. He lets his focus narrow until the questions are all there is.

“You’re my best friend. My truest friend,” he begins. “You’ve been there for me when it’s costly. You’ve helped me at every turn and asked for little. We’ve shared each other’s celebrations and broken hearts. I admire you, I trust you, and I’ll never stop being grateful for your friendship.”

_You’ve earned my trust_ , he thinks. He feels exposed, warm under his skin. He knows one of those feelings should be scared, but he’d said _Neptune_ and _anything_ and this is what Foggy asked for. This is what Foggy wants.

“But you’re more than a friend to me,” he says. “Much more.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “I reacted like that at the cafe because…” He covers his face with his hand: even with Neptune, he’s never had the courage to say this. “Because you wanting me to hurt you is a dream. You’re beautiful, and you inspire me to hurt you. No one’s ever inspired that in me like you.” In the distance, the air in front of Foggy’s mouth pulls inward, stills. “I want so badly for you to trust me enough to do it, and you shouldn’t.” His chest aches. “You should hate me for it instead, for the things I’ve thought about doing to you for years.”

“But even when I expect you to hate me, I want you to know me. I want to tell you the truth. When I can’t, I…” His face feels hot, embarrassment radiates satisfyingly through his torso. “I want you to hold me down and _take_ it from me,” he says, voice like sandpaper. “I want you to tell me each truth you rip from me is repulsive. That I’m repulsive.”

“My feelings about you are…” A half-smile. “Messy, and I can’t stop thinking about them, Fogs. I’ve never stopped thinking about you. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and I… I don’t just _want_ you. I want to give this a real shot. I want to start over and get it right this time. But I'll be happy with whatever you’re willing to give me. Nothing about you could ever be a consolation prize.” 

It’s done. Foggy asked for everything and he gave him everything. All his secrets, every last one. He reopens his senses to the rest of the world.

Foggy is…

He’s _incandescent_ , every inch of his skin lit up with heat. He’s clutching onto the chair like it’s the only thing between him and passing out. His heart is beating adrenaline, confusion, and a curdled mess of emotions. Matt’s never sensed anything like this from him.

Foggy takes in a deep breath and shakily levers himself into the chair in front of him. Falls into it, really.

“Jesus, Matt,” he says.

Matt’s not sure what to say. Disquiet soaks into him. “I’m sorry.”

“Do _not_ apologize for this.” He gives a giddy, disbelieving half laugh, one that sends Matt hunting back through memories. Sparring at Fogwell’s. Foggy asking to watch him fight. And before that, the conversation before their night together.

Smell of nerves firing, elevated pulse, precisely mapped body heat. ”I can’t believe you _told_ me all that,” Foggy says. “Holy shit.” His hand is digging into his thigh hard enough to bruise.

Matt’s breath is ragged and he tries hard, so hard, not to pay attention to Foggy’s body blaring desire so loudly it drowns everything else out. Reactions are normal. They don’t mean anything about _choice_. 

“When I said you could have anything you wanted, I meant it,” he says again, quietly.

Foggy shifts in his chair and there’s another rolling wave of arousal. Matt is actually going to die.

“How long?” Foggy says roughly. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Hard to pinpoint specifics,” he says. “It’s grown over time. But I’ve wanted you ever since we became friends. And I’ve wanted more since the last year of law school. I just didn't know if I could have you like I wanted. I still don’t.” 

Foggy didn’t have much of the screwdriver, but he almost seems drunk, flushed and teary-eyed and baffled. He doesn’t respond to the implicit question, so Matt asks it. 

“ _Can_ I have you, Fogs?” he says bluntly. “Do you want any of this?” He winces at how needy it sounds, but it’s Neptune too. “I know we have a history. I wouldn’t blame you for not being interested.”

Foggy gropes behind him for the chair pillow and hugs it in front of him like a teddy bear. “It would change a lot,” he says. “Are you really sure that’s what _you_ want?”

“Like you said about the hand-holding. It wouldn’t change much for me.” Foggy sucks in a breath. 

“Okay.” He’s still flushed warm, but his skin is cooling as he concentrates. “The sadism, that’s… that’s… you really want that with me specifically?” he says, voice a little shaky. “Not just in the abstract?” 

Matt covers his face again, flooding with shame and embarrassment. “I do,” he admits. “For years now. I didn’t realize it at first, and then I couldn’t accept it.” Foggy’s heart accelerates, but it’s not a _bad_ acceleration. “You’re taking this far better than I expected.” He’s taking this better than _Matt_ had.

“Don’t know why you expected me to take it badly.” His voice is dry. “We’re having this conversation _after_ you figured out I have a specifically kinky thing for your fists. Or did you forget that part?” 

He might choke, just a little. “I… definitely won’t now.”

“Good,” Foggy says firmly. “Is it a... Man In The Mask thing?” he says, voice unusually tentative. “You wanting to hurt me?”

Matt actually laughs out loud. All the years he’s spent trying to compartmentalize, trying to keep the violence in the Devil down so God could work through him instead. “More like the opposite,” he says, and quirks up a teasing smile. “Why, is it a Daredevil thing for you?”

Foggy laughs, awkwardly, a half beat too late.

“Oh my God,” he says, faintly stunned. “It _is_ a Daredevil thing for you.” 

“Not a word, Matt.” He’s flushed hot, the smell of humiliation hangs on his flesh.

“No, it’s nice,” Matt says, urgently. “I’m glad you like that part of me. I’m _glad_.”

He hesitates again. He knows this is too much, all of it, but Fogs asked for Neptune and how he felt and he hasn’t asked Matt to stop.

"If you really want your own personal vigilante army," he says with a teasing lilt he can’t resist, then sobers. “Then… then I'd give that to you too,” he says, testing the words out. “Only to you. Let the Devil out and trust you to hold him back." He hopes Foggy can tell how serious he is, what this means to him.

Foggy must know. He’s sitting there now with his head in his hands, trembling, and there’s salt and heat around his eyes.

“Come here, Matt,” he says hoarsely. “Please. This has been a lot, and I just want to hug my best friend.”

The pillow Foggy’s been holding embeds itself against Matt’s hips as he moves closer, and he wraps his arms around Foggy’s chest. For a moment, they pretend that this is normal. That this is the way things have always been. That Matt’s series of impulsive actions, his liquid truths, haven’t capsized everything familiar in their friendship.

He can’t bring himself to regret it, though, finally giving Foggy the complete honesty he’s always deserved.

“Hey,” Foggy says, breath warm against his ear, in the thinnest, tiniest voice he’s ever heard. “You still Neptune for everything?”

He nods, squishing the juncture of Foggy’s shoulder under his chin. “Until you tell me to stop,” he says.

“Okay,” Foggy chews on his lip again, a sound Matt has never heard from this close. “Two more questions, then you can stop.” He taps out of the hug, but grabs Matt’s wrist as he starts to pull back. “You don’t have to go far. I just gotta see you for this.” 

Matt nods again. Waits. Doesn’t pull his wrist back.

Foggy releases it anyway, leaving imprints on his skin that chill in the air, and the pillow between them tumbles to the floor. “Your feelings about me,” he says, voice uneven. “They’re romantic?” He presses a palm to his forehead. “Fuck, that was a leading question, I’m sorry, Matt—”

“They are,” he interrupts. He can’t understand how anyone could listen to what he’s said and think otherwise. But, as Foggy said, this has been a lot, and he wants to be clear. “Intensely so.”

In lieu of responding, Foggy pulls at his cuticle, flicks his fingernails against each other with a clacking sound. His pulse is running fast, and, wildly inappropriately, Matt has the urge to taste it again.

It’s a solid minute of fidgeting, of Matt kicking at his impulses, before Foggy says another word.

“Am I your first choice?” he asks. “Out of anyone?”

For whatever reason this is what has Foggy vulnerable, wavering, with tears in his voice. And it’s the easiest answer Matt’s ever given.

“Ever since you gave me those potatoes.”

Foggy crumples inwards like tinfoil. Stays there, balled up, wiping tears from his face, breathing in shallow, shuddering sobs. Matt wants to shield him from whatever’s hurting him, engulf him in another hug, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed, or if it would help. Whatever this is, it’s about more than just Matt.

“God.” He sniffles and wipes at his eyes again. “At least you’re not dating it to the Clubtails. I’d never forgive myself.” Matt huffs out a laugh and gives into his impulses. Wraps his arms around Foggy’s shoulders again and squeezes.

Gradually, the flow of Foggy’s tears slows to a trickle. Stops. A strange, tense silence begins to flow between them instead.

Foggy unfolds from his ball into uprightness, and Matt releases him, gives him space. His voice is crackly when he speaks, like he’s breaking through static. “Matt,” he says, and hesitates for long enough that Matt starts to worry. “How would you feel about adding some new planets?”

_Depends on what they are_ , he considers saying, but really, he’d let Foggy add anything to their solar system. “Good,” he says. “Go ahead.”

Foggy blinks his eyes shut, a wet, inflamed sound. “Mars when I’m okay with you hurting me? Saturn when I’m not?” He’s spinning his thumbs around each other, small circles of self-soothing. “We can discuss the Devil stuff later?”

Matt’s world tilts, loses gravity. Foggy is filling their galaxy with new planets to explore _together._ Hope builds in him until he’s buoyant with it. “Are you sure?”

Foggy hesitates, like he’s making a decision, and reopens his eyes. “Listen to my heart, OK? I’m not sure I understood this part correctly, and I need you to hear what I mean, not what I’m saying.”

When Matt tunes in, it’s pounding wildly. Foggy takes a deep, shaky breath and folds his hands around Matt’s. 

Gently, he says, “Everything you told me is repulsive. You're repulsive.” 

Heat flares in Matt’s eyes. This is nothing like Foggy’s earlier disgust, or even Elektra’s. 

“What you’ve offered me tonight, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I’d never consider it for a minute.”

His heart is beating lie, lie, lie. His heart is beating out joy and affection and _awe._

“ _Fogs._ ” Matt’s voice is a broken, teary rasp. 

Foggy leans forward and Matt does too, their foreheads almost crash together, but they course-correct just in time and their lips meet. It’s their first kiss since the disastrously failed one last September. Matt wouldn’t let Foggy go last time, but this time Foggy wraps his arms around Matt, a little too tight, as if he might change his mind about this if Foggy lets him get too far away, and that’s the stupidest thing imaginable. Matt’s never wanted anything so much in his life.

Foggy breaks the kiss but doesn’t move back. “Still listening?”

“Yeah.” His heart’s fast, but steady.

“Good. And to remind you, no more Neptune. I don't want you obligated to respond to this."

He touches his lips to Matt’s again, quick and soft. Presses their foreheads together where they almost collided. “Here’s what I promised I’d tell you eventually. Regretting the way I screwed up our night together? That wasn’t selfless,” he says, breath heating Matt’s lips. “I just couldn’t stand that I screwed up my shot with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, Matt.”

Truth. All of it. The words echo shock through the air.

Foggy pulls back, but doesn’t let go of Matt’s hands. “I know this is a lot too, and too soon, but you told me exactly what I’m in for. You deserve the same. You deserve to know why I’m saying yes.” His facial muscles contort into something outside the expressions Matt has memorized the sounds of, into something shaky. “Also, you just told me you’ve dreamed of me holding you down since law school, and that you want to be my personal army. My calibration of what’s appropriate here is a little out of whack.”

“I.. I…” He swallows. “I’ll try to be worthy of that. Thank you, Foggy.”

He could never be worthy of that. He’s not even worthy enough to think about whether he could say the words back, whether that’s the name for what’s blossomed everywhere in him. Foggy’s giving him a chance to try together, to prove that despite everything he’s done to Foggy, he can be good for him too. That’s more than enough of a gift.

Foggy wipes his eyes. “If you’d just _asked_ …” He laughs thinly and wipes his eyes again. “I want to do _so much_ with you right now. I think I’m too messed up. Can we just… head off to bed and hold each other for a while?”

“That sounds perfect.”

It does. It really does. Being in Foggy’s bed, Foggy’s arms— the new growth in him finally grasping the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first segment of the story that went up completely unbetaed and whoooooo do I feel anxious about what people will think


	14. Dawning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Upupanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway) and templewulf for their ever-amazing betas.

He wakes and everything smells of Foggy.

The air holds traces of his breath, the heat and moisture of it concentrating at the nape of Matt’s neck, the ghosts of lavender on his stomach where Foggy’s hands rest. Matt revels in the blurred edges where their scents mingle.

“Hey,” Foggy whispers into his ear. “You awake?”

His sleep-haze fades into a soft heap of pillows on Foggy’s bed. Foggy’s heartbeat is so unaccustomedly close.

He rolls over so Foggy can see his face. The muscles of his shoulder twinge, a sign he’s not dreaming again. “I am,” he says with a smile. “Why, looking for something?”

Foggy drops the notebook he’s holding onto the bedside table. “Definitely.” He brushes a hand against Matt’s face and leans in, giving him a chance to roll out of the way. Matt presses forward into it instead, a languorous, velvety, thorough exploration of lips and tongue that leaves him boneless.

“I’ve been wanting to wake up and do that for years,” Foggy says. It’s the same open vulnerability that drew Matt to him, so many years ago. The same easy warmth and affection.

“Best morning I’ve had in a while too,” Matt says inadequately. 

Foggy shakes his head as if to clear it. “The rest can wait until after breakfast,” he says. “Last thing I want is to derail today because one of us is hangry.”

“Mmm.” He lounges back and stretches, partly so he can drink in Foggy’s reaction. “Should I order us delivery AM Crunchwraps? Breakfast in bed?”

Foggy’s smile rubs wider against his teeth. “You crack wise! But if I thought you’d eat one for a minute, I’d take you up on it.”

And maybe he’s feeling sentimental today, because he’s almost tempted. September and November dinners together, but so different from last year. The only thing that stops him is knowing a delivery person would have to find the apartment. Today, he wants Foggy to himself. 

They pick over the leftover black-eyed peas and tamales. Matt’s too nervous to be hungry, paces while grazing to outrun the restless churn in his stomach. Foggy, on the other hand, finishes his portion quickly, pulls some Froot Loops from the cupboard, and begins to pour them into a bowl, scent saccharine and faintly chemical.

“I hope you’re not expecting to kiss me with that mouth,” Matt calls out teasingly.

Foggy flushes and starts to roll the top of the cereal bag back up.

Shit, shit, Matt should have known better, after the passive-aggressive comments from his aunt. “Fogs, stop. It was a joke about the Froot Loops, not about you. Eat whatever you want, and then _please_ come kiss me with that mouth.”

Something about the way he says it, maybe the urgency of his tone, makes Foggy put down the cereal anyway and stride towards the table. Matt sets down his own plate with a careless clatter.

Foggy stops just millimeters away, body heat enveloping Matt like they’re already pressed together. Matt’s breath shallows as Foggy tilts his head, drinking in every detail of Matt’s posture, tasting for something specific.

He must have found it, because all of his cheek muscles lift. He reaches a hand up to Matt’s face. Foggy traces a finger along his jaw. His fingers, warm as sunlight, brush up Matt’s neck and caress his earlobe, and Matt’s breathing isn’t so much shallow now as it is shuddering.

Foggy curls a hand behind Matt’s neck to tug him down.

There he breathes against Matt’s mouth, light, tantalizing, savory with cornmeal and garlic. His lips brush open-mouthed and dry against Matt’s. Dissatisfying. His tongue darts out, lighting up not enough nerve endings, and a desperate sound escapes Matt’s throat.

Finally, _finally,_ Foggy surges forward into a kiss, and Matt surges into the opportunity. He crushes Foggy’s torso to his, tongue stabbing enthusiastic and incautious into Foggy’s mouth. Foggy savages his lower lip in retaliation, and his mouth muffles the echoes of Matt’s moan. Wedging every inch of their bodies together can’t smother the fire roaring through him.

Foggy straddles Matt’s legs and Matt tangles one around Foggy’s. Somewhere along the line he’s been shoved into the table, and he can feel Foggy’s cock jutting into his thigh. God, he never wants this to stop.

After what feels like hours, he remembers, fuzzily, that today had an agenda, and taps Foggy on the side. They pull inches back from the kiss, Matt’s mouth tender and blazing, as he tries to catch his breath. “What I said yesterday, about going further down this road? It applies here.” He’s not breathing anymore so much as panting, and Foggy’s fingers still surround his earlobe. “You said the rest could wait until after breakfast, but I definitely can’t concentrate on food anymore.”

“Mmm. It’ll take your undivided attention.” Another quick brush of lips. “If I’m lucky, maybe for the rest of the day.” His tone is lower, promising.

He shivers. “You’ve _got_ my undivided attention.”

He nods and, with apparent reluctance, steps back. “Settle in. Wherever’s most comfortable for you.”

Foggy drops into the armchair, the most comfortable seat in his apartment thanks to that awful couch. Bringing over a kitchen chair makes the most sense, but Matt doesn't want to be away from Foggy for that long. He settles cross-legged in front of the armchair instead and leans against the arm.

“Yesterday, you gave me Neptune. Can we use it again, or was that a one-time thing?” 

Some of the overwhelming arousal fades as he focuses on the question. He hadn’t considered it one way or the other, but Foggy has earned more than one day of honesty. “We can use it if you want,” he says, aiming for nonchalant.

“ _Thank_ you, Matt,” he says fervently, touching a hand to his chest. “I won’t let you down again.”

His heart is steady, but Matt shakes his head. “It’s okay if you do. If we were perfect, we wouldn’t need confession, and I certainly wouldn’t be months overdue.”

Foggy chuckles, then rests a tentative touch on Matt’s shoulder, and Matt nudges back into it. 

“I want to follow up,” Foggy says. “To talk about what else is happening today, and our relationship.” His voice is soft for the next part, like he’s still not sure Matt’s comfortable trusting him. “Planet on those topics?”

“Neptune,” he says immediately, heart pounding.

“This one’s for my anxieties. You haven’t changed your mind? You still want to go through with... everything you said last night?”

He huffs out a laugh. “I still have the same feelings I’ve had since law school, yes,” he says dryly.

“Okay, okay,” he says, with a wry twist of his own, “In that case: I’ve got a list of things to talk about first. A really long list, and it’s going to get boring and unsexy sometimes, but I want to do this right.” 

He taps something against his knee: the notebook he’d dropped on the end table earlier. Of _course_ Foggy took notes on what to cover, on what lines they had to draw. 

“You down?” Foggy asks.

The hand on Matt’s shoulder wafts lavender and vanilla at him, and he tilts towards it, entranced. Being this aware of Foggy’s closeness isn’t helping make their discussion unsexy. “Yeah, but I need a moment.” 

He doesn’t have to cast about for a single source of input— Foggy’s heartbeat, excited and a little concerned, is what he’s paying attention to anyway. He lets his focus melt into that heartbeat, the steady rhythm of it smoothing down the edges of Matt’s attention.

“Sorry,” he says, once he’s more confident in his conversational abilities. “ _You_ had my undivided attention. Not, uh, our discussion.”

“Really want to flatter me, don’t you,” he says with transparent delight. “All right. Let’s get started." Foggy withdraws his hand from Matt’s shoulder. "One. Yesterday was kind of… intense and confusing, so I’ve gotta confirm what you’re asking for. I’ll repeat back what I understood, see if we're on the same page.”

Embarrassment makes him shift uncomfortably. He'd said a lot of strange things yesterday. 

“Feels weird to me too, buddy, but if this is gonna happen, we’ve got to talk. And I _really_ want this to happen.” Yearning, a longing so sharp it takes Matt's breath away. “That’s why I started with Neptune: no judgments for bringing up the awkward.” He takes a deep breath, drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. “So. You want to hurt me, you want me to force honesty out of you and say you’re repulsive, and...” more hesitantly, “you want to be with me romantically? That all correct? I miss anything?”

“You got everything.” Matt makes himself relax back against the chair. “And, and yeah, that’s what I want.”

“I’m glad. So I’ve said it explicitly: yes to all of those. They’re all either exactly what I want, or fun but not strictly necessary for me.” That much was clear from last night’s conversation, but it’s still astonishing and dissonant to hear it laid out.

“Two.” Foggy’s tone becomes brisk and businesslike, the voice he uses to project self-assurance to clients, but there’s something vulnerable underneath. “Given the conversation that brought us here, I assume you know what a safeword is. What’s yours?”

Somehow, this is the question that makes it real. That the last twelve hours haven’t been a fluke— that something significant is going to change between them. That Foggy’s _preparing_ for it. “Pluto,” he says, voice shaking.

Foggy’s heart jumps. “Sticking with our theme. I like that.” He traces a searing, affectionate line along Matt’s face that makes his heart squeeze even harder. “Thing is, ‘not no’ isn’t enough, not for us, Matt. Nothing’s happening that you don’t say yes to. Do you want a special word for that? For ‘yes, I want more’?”

He nods, still struggling to shake the sense of unreality, that he’s going to be able to _have_ this. “Yes. I’d like Venus.” It ought to be confusing, the expanding system of planets, but it feels right. Clear.

Foggy’s facial muscles twitch up. “I guess I should be glad you didn’t go with ‘Uranus.’" He chews on his lip. "Do you mind if I use the same ones? I have my own, usually, but… I’m gonna remember these easier right now.” The notebook crinkles softly in his hand. “They feel like ours.” 

How could Matt possibly say no to that? “I’d like that, Foggy.”

The silence that spreads between them is contented. “Still Neptune?”

He nods, wincing as his head thunks against the armchair. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Thanks.” A smile tints his voice. “Three. When did you last get tested? Because it changes what’s open to us for right now.”

He clears his throat, almost a cough. “Actually. Uh. Six days ago. All negative. Results are in the bag if you need them.”

“Six days ago?” Foggy’s voice is incredulous. “Right after you hit on me at the cafe?”

Matt turns his face sideways into Foggy’s thigh, lets the heat of his face absorb into it. “I wanted to show you I was serious,” he says. He doesn’t have to be embarrassed, he reminds himself— Foggy placed the timing immediately, so that day meant something to Foggy too. It thoroughly fails to bring down the heat of his cheeks.

“Well, mission accomplished,” Foggy says weakly, and taps the notebook against his other leg, shockwaves reverberating into Matt’s face. “This one you don’t have to answer, Neptune or no, but… how much of this were you planning?”

  
“Still not a planner,” he says. “I was expecting to explain and ask for another shot. I wasn’t expecting to tell you everything I did last night.”

“Me neither, buddy. But I’m... really glad you did.” His feet wriggle with restless happiness. “I got tested a couple months ago, but there hasn’t been anyone since Marci. If we go there, you comfortable doing oral without condoms?”

Foggy thought his questions were going to be unsexy. He almost laughs. “Completely.” The sharp bitterness of latex lingers in his memory, and Foggy’s incredible mouth on his bare skin is worth a little risk. “Not sure you want me to be this comfortable,” he adds mischievously.

Foggy swats him. “You know I do, troll.” He flips the notebook to the next page. “Back to the list, question four. Want special tools for anything? I have a little of a lot, but if you have something really nice in mind, we’d need to buy it. Restraints? Impact tools? Edible underwear?”

Matt wrinkles his nose. “Edible is overselling it.”

Foggy sets the notebook on his lap with a papery thump. “All right, I gotta know. Why did you, of all people, try edible underwear?”

“Elektra thought the faces I made smelling it in the shop were funny.” It’s still shaky, talking about her, but it’s better. He untangles from it in minutes rather than hours.

Foggy’s heart skips. “Of course. Why did I even ask.” He squeezes Matt’s shoulder, the press of his fingers soothing against his skin. 

Matt leans back into the touch and considers. He’d never really _used_ the tools he collected in the past. “I might like something eventually,” he says, “but generally, I prefer using my hands. It feels more personal.”

“Mmm. That… is an appealing way to look at it.” Blood rises intoxicatingly to the surface of Foggy’s skin, and Matt has to resist the impulse to bite it, to find out whether he can keep it there. “Five. Is it just ‘repulsive’ that does it for you, or is that part of something bigger? Do other insults work?”

That’s easy enough. _You like being told you’re doing it badly._ “An ex told me I hit like shit,” he says with an awkward smile.

“And that did it for you?”

“Mmm." He shifts again. "Really did."

“Okay. Gives me a sense, thanks.” He drums his fingers on the armrest again. “Six, the violence, we’re going to need limits there,” he says, and Matt can’t help it— he twists and reaches up for Foggy’s hand. “You need a sec?”

“Just one,” he says, and breathes, letting the disorientation, the deluge of emotion, flow past him, between their intertwined fingers. _This is happening,_ he reminds himself. _Foggy wants this_. He squeezes and lets go. “Go ahead.”

Foggy nods. “On my end, I want nothing visible above clothing for more than a day, nothing that scars or otherwise does permanent damage, and nothing anywhere that takes longer than a week to heal.”

After a few moments of patient silence, he realizes, with a jolt, that Foggy’s done.

“That’s it?” he says disbelievingly. “That leaves… a lot of room, Fogs.” 

“I know. I don’t want to stifle your creativity.” His heartbeat is steady and affectionate. “I told you years ago. I’m not afraid of you. And I can take a lot more than most people.”

He could do so much within those expanses that Foggy wouldn’t like. Overwhelm his nervous system, leave agony on his skin for days. The trust Foggy’s offering is unimaginably vast.

“What about you, Matt? Limits on the violence?”

The wiring in his mind sparks. Short-circuits. He never considered that _he’d_ be setting limits for this, for how much damage he’s willing to do to Foggy.   
  


He sets a hand over his mouth and tries to think through it. Bruises that pool at the surface, scratches with their raised edges and blazing heat, he loves. His fists on Foggy’s skin are a shared dream, even if it still terrifies him. But Claire’s patchwork of injuries, the wounds she stitched up, his nightmare about blood dripping from his teeth…

“I don’t want to draw blood. If… if that’s okay.” A cautious, wavering line. “And if we try it the other way around, I don’t like bruises, or things that sting.”

“Of course it’s okay, Matt. Anything you need is okay." The line sharpens. "And while we’re on the subject, do you have any other limits? Need any special kind of aftercare?”

“Not really limits,” he says, “I don’t like earplugs, infantilization, or broken glass. As for the aftercare, uh. I wouldn’t know. I’ve only had it the once.”

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. “This really _is_ new to you.” Unlike Brian, he doesn’t make that sound like a good thing. “Obviously you know the basics. I’m just… surprised.”

Matt offers Foggy his most reassuring shrug. “It’s only kind of new. The… formalities are new. Elektra was never big on them.”

“Ugh,” Foggy says with distaste. “I’m still so sorry that’s been your main experience.” His face makes a small vibration. “But I can make sure your next one is better.” Before Matt’s had a chance to recover from that particular surge of lust, he adds, “Did the aftercare you had work for you? And what did it look like?”

“It looked pretty average, far as I could see,” he says, mostly to give himself a moment to clear his head. Foggy shakes his head, but Matt can feel him stifle a snort. “Joking aside,” this feels uncomfortably like a betrayal of someone else’s secrets, “she, uh. Held me. Said... nice things about me, what I was doing. And yeah, it worked.”

“Cool, that _is_ actually pretty average. I can do that, no problem **.”** A daydream of Foggy kissing him on the forehead, telling him he’s done well. A disconcertingly deep satisfaction. He entirely misses the next few words. “...just need to be held for a while,” Foggy is saying when Matt tunes back in.

“That’s what you need for aftercare?”

“Exactly,” Foggy says, and Matt makes a mental note. “Next, another one for me. Are you okay if we use Neptune as a safety net today? Check in a lot, tap out if we start hiding things? I know I fucked up a lot between us, not letting you have secrets, but… I need to know I’m not fucking _this_ up, Matt. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I hurt you with this.”

It makes Matt uneasy— what he might say, how it could drive new distance between them after they’ve finally gotten this close. But he doesn’t want to fuck this up either. “As long as you can really promise no judgment, I’m willing.” Neptune forces him to add, “As for you checking in, I’d, uh. Enjoy that too.”

“ _Would_ you now.” His voice goes flirtatious, but not the warm, open flirtation of sunlight. Its inverse, shadowy and silken, made chillier by its proximity to the sun’s rays. “But then I wouldn't have to hold you down to get the truth out of you.”

“You… you still could. If you wanted.”

He’d let Foggy do so much, if he wanted. The feeling should be dangerous, should set off warning signals. But he knows, bone-deep, that he’s only this permissive because Foggy would never intentionally cause Matt harm, because he’s proved he’ll work to heal any damage he does.

It seems tantalizingly like Foggy’s going to kiss Matt again, he's listing in Matt’s direction, but he growls under his breath instead. “We are going to get through this damn list before it kills me. _Eight._ How do you wanna handle the heartbeat thing? Some people like not knowing whether I mean the insults, but uh.” He flushes, warm and embarrassed. “Hearing my heartbeat would clear up that ambiguity real fast.”

“I want to listen, Foggy,” he says immediately. He’s spent too much time not listening to himself, ignoring Foggy’s responses. The idea of being allowed to hear as much as he wants is almost intolerably luxurious. “I’ve always liked your reactions, and they’re useful for me,” knowing whether gasps are pain or pleasure or both.

He scrubs his hand over his face, because that's not a complete answer, not yet, and this is Neptune. “Yesterday, when you had me listen to how you really felt,” he says, softly, “I never wanted to stop.”

It’s too much to admit, probably, but he can’t lie about it right now. And Foggy _said_ he loved him. Still, he’s bracing for a reaction.

The reaction he gets: Foggy’s eyes brim with heat and salt. “Seriously, Matt,” he says, “I’m not dreaming, right?”

“No.” He circles Foggy’s ankle with a hand and attempts a smile. It feels too uncomfortably sincere to allow onto his face. “You're not.” 

“Back to the _list_ ,” he says, and his determination is almost vicious now. Matt can’t blame him— the temptation to knock the list out of Foggy’s lap and take its place is almost overwhelming. “Me telling you to listen to my heartbeat. That’s the next thing, actually. “

“Oh?”

His voice is careful. “Again, no wrong answer, but: is it just the hurting you like? Because you've responded to a lot of ideas about giving me control. Listening to my heart when I ask, being my personal army, letting me take the truth from you. Am I reading that right?” 

Matt had forgotten to tell Foggy this part, and he’d _observed_ it. Foggy hadn’t made assumptions about what it meant that Matt wanted to hurt him, like even Claire had. 

Matt’s never had anyone pay such close attention to his preferences. Never had anyone adjust to him so seamlessly.

“You’re right,” he admits. “It’s not just the hurting I like.” 

  
  


“Cool.” More happy warmth radiates from Foggy's skin. “Control can look like a few things. Physically moving you. Telling you what to do or say, where to go, so on. Then there’s mental stuff that, in my opinion, can be trickier to do well, and more intense. Taking over your decisions, your thinking patterns, down to your sense of self. You interested in trying any of that with me?”

All of it. He wants to know what it’s like, to have someone so intimately _aware_ of his reactions, someone so in tune with what they mean, take control. But it’s not a simple question.

Giving Brian control quieted his mind and made him more honest about what he wanted. Giving Claire control relaxed him, taught him about himself, made him stop overthinking. With Foggy, he already has all of that. Foggy gave him that years ago with Neptune. And Foggy means more to him than anyone else he’s done this with.

Handing Foggy the reins would be different. Would mean letting Foggy use that deeper knowledge of him, letting him touch the parts Matt keeps shielded. A trust that could change him, a precipice he could fall from.

Stick would be ashamed of him for even considering it. But Stick would be ashamed of every decision that brought him and Foggy together. Foggy worked hard for years to earn this choice.

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and lets his guard drop.

“Yes,” he says. “I’d like that.” 

Foggy falters, then recovers. “I should have specified. Which part would you like, Matt?”

“All of it, please,” he says steadily. “Everything you just said.”

Matt’s never been good at saying no to what he wants. He doesn’t _want_ to say no. He can trust Foggy. 

“Matt? I know you said you’d tell me, but… planets, please?”

He knows why Foggy’s asking, can feel the trembling of his arms, the unsteady flutter of his pulse. “Neptune,” he says, gently. “Venus.”

“That’s a hell of a lot to trust me with. _Thank_ you.” His fingers run through Matt’s hair, so possessively that Matt’s breath drags out of him. “I promise you, I won’t let you regret it.” There’s overwhelmed affection there, but the same absolute, steady conviction he’d had in his skills that first night. Matt has to know what _that_ means. 

“Do you want a word for it?” he continues, and Matt shakes out of his reverie.

“No.” It doesn’t hurt other people— it doesn’t need separate lines. And Matt made a choice to share this with Foggy. He doesn’t want to take it back unless it’s an emergency, the kind of emergency he’d need Pluto for.

“All right.” Foggy swallows. “Last thing. You said you trusted me enough to let the Devil out. What does that mean?”

Matt heats with shame and turns his face sideways again. “Still Neptune? You won’t judge this? Your word?”

“Cross my heart.”

He shifts so that he can rest the back of his head against Foggy’s leg. Tries to articulate yet another thing he hasn’t let himself think about. “I can hurt you and enjoy it, to an extent,” he says. “Vicariously experience your pleasure. Feel satisfied that I've given you what you want without damaging you, without crossing a line.” 

He presses the flat of his thumb into the bridge of his nose. “The Devil doesn’t care about lines, or even pleasure. The Devil just likes hurting. Likes the violence itself, the smells and textures of injured skin, hearing someone whimper in pain and knowing I… he did that,” Matt corrects uncomfortably. “There’s a reason I only allow myself that when it saves lives. It’s… it’s not good, Foggy.”

“And you’d let me have it.” There’s that awe again. “Still?”

“If you want it,” he says, with raw honesty. “I don’t understand why you would.”

“Well, I do.” Foggy runs a firm, intimate hand through Matt’s hair. “I want you, Matt, which means the parts you think are good _and_ the parts you don’t.” He leans to kiss the crown of Matt’s head, breath blistering against his scalp. “I give you blanket permission to enjoy hurting me, to tell me about it, and when I say Mars, I give you the same permission to let the Devil out. Promise I’ll say Saturn or Pluto if it gets to be too much. All right?”

He breathes around the choke in his throat. “If you’re sure,” he says, pressing his head back against Foggy’s leg. The words are the best he can allow himself, better than the words he hasn’t earned the right to say yet. 

“I am. And that’s everything,” he says, snapping the notebook shut. It echoes like a bolt of thunder through Matt’s spine. “Use your safeword if you change your mind about any of it. Anything else I should know? Any questions?”

There are no more truths for Foggy to drink from him, liquid or otherwise. “No,” he says.

“Okay. Me either.”

The silence is zipping with electricity, electricity Matt doesn’t know how to direct. But Foggy does. “When do you want this to happen, Matt? ‘Cause I can wait as long as you need, but I’m ready when you are.”

He’s waited for years already. Years is enough.

“Is, uh, now a good time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inner sexual health educator demands I tell you that there are STIs that don’t get picked up in a standard screening unless you’ve got symptoms (like HPV, and some places won’t automatically test for herpes if you don’t have symptoms because it’s so common and generally harmless that it’s not seen as a problem unless there are symptoms) so in conclusion get the HPV vaccine and condoms are still the safest idea even if you’ve both gotten tested. :D


	15. Constellations

Foggy laughs with a familiar giddiness: Matt’s not the only one who remembers the phrasing. But this time, he swallows and reaches a warm, clammy hand down to twine with Matt's. They’ve stood at the edge of this bridge for so long: it’s a relief that they’re both nervous about crossing it.

“Do you know where you want to start?” Foggy says, almost reverently.

He hunches inwards. “No.” Here, of all situations, there has to be a right answer, something Foggy would prefer, and he can’t start out their entire relationship making the wrong call. 

—except they’ve already discussed the right call, the easy solution. He wants to see what it’s like to give Foggy control. 

Tingles run across his skin, electricity shocking him. He straightens. “Would you decide?”

“Okay, Matt,” he says, and the air crackles. That confident, possessive touch presses into his cheekbone. “But remember, nothing’s happening unless you want it. Give me your planets.”

He relaxes into the touch of Foggy’s hand. “Neptune. But mostly…” He breathes, and finally, irrevocably admits to what he’s been carrying with him for four years. “Venus. I want this, Foggy.”

“Good,” he says, voice warm and thrilled, heart beating fiercely. Then he takes a long, deliberate breath and focuses, and it slows. He drops his hand from Matt’s face, unlaces his fingers from Matt’s.

“Come up here and kiss me.” Not a request, but nothing challenging or laborious. Foggy’s testing his boundaries and his defenses like he had with the punch mitts, years ago. Matt feels a pull towards it, like a punch pulled back to make a rookie boxer overextend, but he holds off leaning into it, smirks. Foggy’s not the only one testing boundaries.

“I said,” Foggy’s voice goes sleek and purposeful, “get your worthless ass up here and _kiss_ me.”

God. His breath centers in his chest, slides against the muscles of his stomach. The sparks of warmth and need fly around him, bury themselves in his skin, and the fight fades under their onslaught.

“Yes, Foggy,” he murmurs, and rises to his feet in a fluid motion that makes Foggy’s breath hitch. He centers himself over Foggy’s lap, one knee to either side, drapes both arms over Foggy’s shoulders, and leans in.

The warmth of their torsos pressed together, the careful, precise concentration, the teasing, clever teeth and tongue, they’re all familiar. But the shape of Foggy’s hand on his face isn’t; he’s cradling Matt’s jaw, thumb and forefinger at its corners, their gentle pressure parting Matt’s lips for Foggy. It pours need and fire over every surface of his mind, burning at the kindling under his skin.

Their first night, he hadn’t been able to appreciate how thoughtfully Foggy was crafting this for him, how well suited they were. They’re adapting to each other’s desires and tempos, like he and Claire had, but it’s a shift of millimeters, not miles. This feels ineffably _right_.

Foggy breaks the kiss to bite at Matt’s jawline, a focused, sharp sensation in distributed points. His fingertips along Matt’s arm trail so lightly they feel equally sharp. Single points of contact to follow with his whole awareness, to center on, but points that challenge each other. Their conflict is overstimulating, just this side of overwhelming.

“So sensitive,” Foggy says. His voice is flavored with mild, soft triumph. It glides against his senses. “Noticed it the first time I touched you. You shivered and moaned at the lightest touch. So obvious. So _easy_ for me." His breath ghosts achingly along Matt’s jaw. “This tone work for you?”

“Yeah.” Very. Matt is shifting restlessly against him, almost writhing, skin hungry for more and less contact. He feels like he’s breaking into his component parts. 

“I’ve been waiting for the chance to do this to you. Too much, isn’t it? Hurts a little?” Matt angles into his fingertips, trying to force more pressure. Foggy chuckles and draws them back without losing contact. “You’re this gorgeous pink, and your breathing is uneven. You don’t know whether you want me to keep going or stop.” Another bite at Matt’s jaw, and one of the trailing fingertips becomes a single fingernail. Matt shudders. “I could make that decision easier. Give you just one focus, if you want it.”

“Please.” Matt doesn’t want it. He _needs_ it, aches for it, breath burning shallow in his lungs.

“Ask me, Matt,” he says, quietly, “Ask for what you want.”

Matt swallows, and a tension rises in him. Another challenge. Foggy’s asking, not just for simple compliance, or consent, but full complicity. An active choice in the guise of an order: whether to trust Foggy enough to wade deeper into that pool of stilled emotions. He’s not submerged, yet, but the undertow tugs at him.

Foggy’s earned it. He lets it drag him under. Lets himself sink into his desire, into his trust for Foggy. “Just one focus, please,” he says, open and clear. “ _Venus._ ”

Foggy smiles, and his heartbeat surges affection to match. “So demanding.” The curve of his lips against Matt’s jawline feels like a reward, even when the words don’t sound like it. 

Foggy’s face withdraws, the overwhelming graze of his fingers deepens along Matt’s torso. Matt settles under the single touch, nerves quieting, until Foggy deliberately traces one of his scars with a fingertip.

“I guess I can indulge you,” Foggy says, untruth-but-not-deception in his heartbeat, startling and enthralling. “Even someone as broken as you can be fun to play with.”

It's a simple acknowledgment of Matt’s past hurt, not pity or protectiveness. Matt stifles a sound, almost a groan, and presses into it.

Everything is shuddering into place. He’s dissolving into nothing, into peace, into trust, shunting aside the last several years of pain and confusion. His lungs empty tension from his body and words flow from his mouth.

“What could make me _worth_ playing with, Fogs?” Shame and embarrassment have deserted him. Foggy’s breath shortens in surprise, like this is an unexpected gift, and the water’s surface ripples above him. “Tell me. I’ll do it for you.” 

Foggy cocks his head, like he’s considering another part of the puzzle. “Did I tell you to talk?”

His breath catches, presses out of his lips. “No.”

“Then don’t. Listen instead. Focus on my heartbeat.”

It’s loud. Exhilarated. But steady.

Foggy stills his hand over Matt’s chest. “ _Nothing_ could make you worth playing with.” The words hit with the satisfying impact of a punch. “You’re unfixable. Eventually, I’ll get tired of you and move on.”

Matt’s rawest fears, bluntly presented. Foggy’s heart, dismissing them with a centered steadiness, a continuous electric flow of desire. Matt never wants to breathe again. Wants to fill his lungs with this instead, with the words Foggy’s really saying.

“Still. If you really want to do penance for what you are...”

It jolts him backwards. He wrinkles his nose.

“Too Catholic?” Foggy says in a more normal tone of voice.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Noted, and sorry.” He nudges a cushion out from under the armchair with his foot. “If you want to _try_ to keep me interested,” he says, voice shadowed again, and Matt shivers back to attention, “Take this to my bedroom, set it down, and wait for me there.”

His body resists moving back from Foggy’s warmth, from the evidence of Foggy’s desire. But it's what Foggy wants, so he slides off the armchair. The few steps to the bedroom are strange, disorienting, and he drops the cushion by the bed.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Some twenty seconds later, Foggy fills the doorframe. His shoulders pulse with quick, shallow breaths. Then he steps forward. “On your knees,” he says quietly, heart racing.

Matt sinks to his knees. They don’t dig into the cushion the way they did the carpet, the polished concrete, the armchair. He’s off-balance. He's floating.

Foggy presses the heel of his hand against Matt’s forehead, fingers curling over his hair, and rests it there, almost a benediction. Surprising. He’d expected something pleasantly obscene, Brian presenting Matt with his cock, Claire winding fingers into his hair and pulling. 

He should know better than to guess, with Foggy. For years he tried to anticipate him, and he was always wrong. His job isn’t to anticipate— it’s to flow with the current of Foggy’s desire, dance with its movements like a sparring partner.

“How you feeling, Matt?” Foggy says, absently stroking his hair with his thumb. “Planet?”

“Neptune and Venus.” He drifts in that current. “So much Venus, Foggy. Please.”

“Kiss me here.” He traces a dry, sibilant line where his inner thigh meets the edge of his boxers. 

Matt kisses it eagerly, open-mouthed, stabilizing Foggy’s thigh between his palms, deepening into a swirl of teeth and tongue as Foggy breathes heavily. Desire is steaming from his pores, punctuated by beautiful, bitten-off sounds.

“You’ve got a great mouth,” he says hoarsely. His heart beats a flash of hesitation, trepidation, and Matt knows with his body that things are about to escalate. _Now_ Foggy’s going to ask for Matt’s mouth on his cock, now that he’s been sufficiently warmed. 

But again Foggy surprises him. “I’ll let you be creative with it,” he says. “Let that filthy tongue wander wherever it likes, as long as you admit to every disgusting, humiliating,” another hesitation, “ _disastrous_ desire. Planet.”

There’s a shard of adrenaline, a lump in Matt’s throat. Foggy knows _disastrous_ will remind him of Elektra, wants to make sure it’s safe. It’s on the edge of safety, the void tugs at him, but he’s still here. “Yes, Foggy,” he says.

“That’s not a planet.” But there’s laughter in his voice.

Matt nudges against Foggy’s hand, tries to still his breathing. Foggy deserves to have this effort acknowledged. “Any planet that lets me be your disaster,” he says with difficulty.

“God, Matt.” Foggy’s heart stumbles, his voice trembles. Forcing the words past the void was worth it. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, but I need a real answer.” His thumb strokes Matt’s hair again, tenderly, and his heartbeat portends another risk, another escalation. “I have to take care of what’s mine, don’t I?”

_What’s mine._ “Neptune,” he says, a warped, confused warmth filling him. “Venus.” God, he’s _Foggy’s_. 

Foggy lets out a breath, a quiet relief. He’d been nervous about how Matt would take that, he realizes dimly. “Tell me what you want to do with that mouth.”

The truths flow out of him. “Follow this line up,” he says, tracing a path along Foggy’s inner thigh that ends in the crease of his hip. After that, he wants to follow the same path with his fingernails, but Foggy hadn’t asked about his hands, and he’s not comfortable volunteering that part. “After that, spread your legs. I want to blow you.”

“You giving the orders now?” Foggy says, but his voice is playful, and the way his breath hitches is mesmerizing as Matt’s tongue and teeth roam their way up. 

Once Matt has hooked his fingers under the waistband of Foggy’s boxers and tugged them down, Foggy widens his stance. “This your first ever cock?” Curious, conversational. No preferred answer.

Matt noses at Foggy’s thigh, inhaling the smell of him. Cinnamon and vanilla and desire and home, smells his body has always told him to breathe in like oxygen. He reverently kisses the inside of his thigh, the tip of his cock, the latter provoking a gasping inhalation he instantly loves. “No,” he says hoarsely. “Not my first.”

“ _Really_.” Foggy sounds delighted. “Seems like you’ve done some adventuring in the last few years. You’ll tell me all about it later. But,” his facial muscles curl up, “I plan to keep your mouth too busy for that right now, my disaster.” The void pulls again, but less this time, like every repetition is erasing Elektra’s imprint from the word.

“Put your mouth on me. Do it well.” He pauses thoughtfully. “And you can read my heartbeat, but no other superpowers.”

Once again, his focus narrows to a single point.

The taste is distinct: skin salty from sweat and precum, a musk and warmth found nowhere else on Foggy’s body. Matt keeps his teeth well out of the way— he’s winced through enough clumsy scraping to know that much. His tongue elicits a lukewarm response. He presses more heavily, knowing Foggy’s tolerances, and this time draws out a grunt, a minute hip movement. Still not as much as he’s aiming for.

Being told _not_ to use his skills grates against his pride. He guiltily lets sensory detail inundate him. Foggy’s precise position, his center of balance. The places Matt could touch to provoke more intense reactions, and shame drenches him, but he can’t help it. Being this close to Foggy, this intimate, all his desires are drifting on the surface like soap bubbles.

Foggy’s heart accelerates, “You’ve got no idea what you look like. That’s the one thing you can’t do, right?” The slick sound of his tongue wetting his lips. “Let me describe it for you. Your mouth looks amazing around my cock, Matt, so filthy red, and it’s so obvious you haven’t done this much, the suction alone—”

Irritation pricks Matt. He tightens his lips around Foggy’s cock and sucks inward, sliding along the shaft, and Foggy makes a satisfying disoriented, wanting sound. “All right, all right, you’re a quick learner,” he laughs, then sobers. “But that’s not my favorite part, Matt. You know what my favorite part is?”

He palms Matt’s triceps— not enough to constrict, but enough that his warmth is inescapable. “Watching your hands at your sides, shaking like they’re scared to touch me.” His fingers run through Matt’s hair. “Planet, at your own pace.”

Matt doesn’t pull off right away— he wants to taste Foggy everywhere, and he’s not ready to stop trying for a reaction. But eventually, he loosens the suction and glides his face back, drawing forth an involuntary hip twitch that glows through him. “Venus,” he says. “Neptune.”

The hair stroking grows heavier, more deliberate. “Tell me exactly what those hands are thinking about,” Foggy says, and Matt turns to ice. “What _all_ of you wants those hands to do. And remember, Neptune means no judgment.”

All of him. Somehow, Foggy’s guessed the direction of his thoughts, the careful way he’s blocking them off.

He has the urge to ask Foggy if he’s sure, but Foggy’s heart is beating rapid and determined. He knows what he’s doing.

Matt can trust Foggy. He lets the careful control slip. Lets the Devil fill his senses.

“To me, right now,” he says, and falters. Shame and truth flood over him, intoxicating and heavy, but Foggy’s hand in his hair anchors him. “You’re made of targets.” 

A caught breath. “Tell me what that means.”

“Angles I can manipulate to trap you,” he rasps. “Points on your body where I can inflict suffering without ending it right away. I know how to use them to my advantage.”

A full-body shudder, blood coursing through vessels that were already engorged. Foggy’s body is desperate to hear this, and it _moves_ Matt, but he has to make sure. Bodily response doesn’t mean choosing.

“Planet,“ he says quietly.

“Don’t you dare stop, Matt. _Venus._ ”

That’s as clear as the Devil could ask for. “Hurting you from down here, without moving you, is a challenge.” It’s strange, speaking what’s usually just instinct, but it’s worth it for the way Foggy’s breath goes ragged. “I could inflict pain here, something light and superficial,” he runs a caress along the back of Foggy’s thigh, trails a hand up to his ass, “or go for the knee or the ankle if I want to incapacitate you.” 

Foggy’s temperature rises a delicious few degrees. Matt’s shoulders begin to untense, his focus on Foggy and his reactions intensifies. “Or I could control your center of gravity, access more of you that way.” That center of gravity is still high, and Foggy is directly in front of the bed. Knocking him off-balance is a safe option. 

“Good observations.” Foggy’s legs are trembling, his heart is beating wildly, but his voice is calm, nonchalant. “Very good. But is that what you _want_? Tell me.”

“What I want… ” he says, dreamily. “I want your reactions. To make you need more, then push until I find your limits.”

“Beg me for it.”

His breath catches. Foggy wouldn’t command him to do that as a tease. Without _intent_. “Please,” he whispers.

“You can do better than that.”

It could be genuinely humiliating, but it’s not. It’s a reminder: this is safe. Foggy decides whether the violence happens, how it happens. “Please let me hurt you, Foggy.” He lets the urgency-bordering-on-desperation he’s feeling crash through his voice. “I want it more than anything, _please_.” 

Foggy breathes steadyingly, and when he speaks, it’s in a resolute, heavy whisper.

“Mars.”

Matt is in motion the moment the word escapes Foggy’s mouth. He shoves Foggy’s pelvis back and yanks his leg forward, a sudden rotation that off-balances him backwards onto the bed. Matt straddles his hips and pins both arms above his head with a forearm, knocking a few pillows off the bed in the process.

“God, Matt. _Yes_.” The smells of adrenaline and arousal cover his skin. He’s squirming, arching into it, but he’s sincerely fighting Matt, struggling to get out from under his elbow. Matt gently scrapes his fingernails down Foggy’s throat, and Foggy goes abruptly, beautifully still. 

“Teach me how to get out? Later?” Foggy asks. “I don’t want it to be this easy for you next time.”

Next time. _Next_ time. Foggy hasn’t even been hurt yet, doesn’t even know what Matt can do for him, and he’s already planning a next time. “Yes, Foggy,” he says, something broken and thrilled welling up inside him. “Anything you want.“

“Good. Now make me react,” he says, cooly commanding even from captivity. “You promised, Matt, and I expect you to at least try.”

He did promise. But there are options here, so many he’s dizzy with it. 

He curves his hand around the solid arch of Foggy’s throat, and Foggy’s head falls back, mouth opens lax. “First thing I’ll do is find those limits.” A light squeeze, raising the pitch of Foggy’s answering gasp. “See what you can take. What you enjoy.”

Matt relishes the thin layer of sweat, the scratch of stubble— details his imagination hadn’t been able to fill in. The heady sensation of Foggy trusting him with his life. 

He doesn’t move his hand. Lets himself indulge in it. “Can I learn you, Fogs? Will you let me?” 

“Mars.” Foggy’s heartbeat stays steady, not even a hint of unease. Even after all their conversations, he hadn’t expected it, this trust with so few limits.

Reluctantly, he releases Foggy’s throat. “I won’t go too far,” he promises, already considering the best, safest ways to begin. “But stop me if I do. Don’t hesitate.”

“I will.”

Fingernails come first, easiest, minimally frightening. He draws one in a thin, slicing line down the inside of Foggy’s forearm, along the muscles. Foggy shivers— simple pleasure, as Matt had suspected. When his hand reaches Foggy’s ribcage, he escalates the touch, drags a full hand of fingernails deeper into the skin. Foggy gasps and oh, it’s not much, but he expands his ribcage into it, reaching for more.

Matt wants to reach back. Wants to leave his marks all over Foggy’s skin. But he’s learning right now, not acting.

He lifts his hand from Foggy’s ribs, taking a moment to admire the heat of the skin there, then leans in close to Foggy’s left side. Foggy cranes his head up quizzically, and his breath goes ragged when Matt forms his right hand into a loose fist. “This still okay?”

“Not made of glass either.” His skin is flushed, though, belying the lighthearted response. 

He holds the fist just below the collarbone, letting Foggy get used to the weight, letting _himself_ get used to the idea again that Foggy could want this from him. Foggy pushes his shoulders up into it, endearingly unafraid.

Matt’s only going to use a fraction of his power here, something that would be harmless to anyone.

He thuds his fist into Foggy’s pectoral muscle, broadening its area of impact, making sure the contact lingers. The opposite of his training, all the things he was taught were too soft to defeat an enemy. Foggy makes a disgruntled, disappointed sound and leans in as if chasing it. 

No pain signals, but no pleasure ones either— Foggy needs more than this. 

Matt hits harder, shifting his impact point each time. He has permission to bruise, but he doesn’t want to, not yet. Five percent. Ten. 

He stays focused, but it’s so hard. He’s pushed back dreams of Foggy making noises under his fists for years, and even these dissatisfied sighs build the urge in him to do more, to wring a reaction out of Foggy with his bare hands. Even they feel like the most precious trust he’s ever been given.

At about fifteen percent, Foggy’s breathing deepens into relaxed, centered pleasure, endorphins start leaking through his skin, he squares himself against the touch and sighs rather than seeking it after it leaves him. Foggy wasn’t _kidding_ about being able to take more than most people. It shouldn’t be surprising, given the grip he responded to last time, but Matt has enemies who’ve flinched under less.

It’s something he aches to try with Foggy later— not bruising him won’t be an option if Matt continues— but it’s a muted, grounding, whole-body pleasure, not the intensity of reaction he’s craving.

He trails his hand down Foggy’s chest and traces around his nipple. Foggy responds with an impatient protest that makes Matt smile.

“I remember touching you here,” he murmurs, thumb and forefinger rolling the nipple until it pebbles. “Wanting to hurt you enough that you’d listen.” He pinches it, harder than he remembers, and twists out the guttural, provocative sound he’s coveted for years. “You made such beautiful noises I almost lost control, Foggy.” His finger circles the other nipple, drawing out an intoxicating sigh of anticipation. “I tried so hard to forget them, but I couldn’t. That’s when I started dreaming about you. About this.” He makes his best estimate of how much Foggy can pleasurably tolerate from his reactions so far.

“I didn’t… didn’t… ahhh!” Matt is twisting to that maximum tolerance. Foggy’s hips bridge into the air, then drop. “Didn’t know that,” he says, breathing ragged and harsh.

“Now you do.” The cry, the breathing, they shudder their way through Matt. Foggy can tolerate— enjoys— a lot of this too, considering he’s still coherent enough to talk. Matt reaches for the memory of how much Elektra could take for comparison.

It’s gone. Crumbled away to nothing.

He adjusts his knee into a side straddle, one that might not hold Foggy if he were paying enough attention to struggle. "I'm glad you do."

Matt doesn’t need the memory anyway. It won't help him find the right way to touch Foggy, the touch that's worthy of him. Only paying attention will do that.

Matt cups Foggy’s thigh. Strikes it with the heel of his hand, the palm, his fingertips, his knuckles. Foggy flinches back from touches that sting and snap and leans into the ones that resonate through the surface of his skin, and he files that knowledge away for any other time he’s allowed to touch Foggy like this. He runs his hands along Foggy’s body freely, because Foggy has let him want this now, let him take it. 

But it’s not until he trails his knuckle along the curve of his jaw that Foggy’s heartbeat goes wild, anticipatory.

“Ah,” he says, because this. _This_ is what he needed to feel. He shifts back into a straddle and runs his fingertips along Foggy’s cheek, gauging his sensitivity. The heartbeat accelerates further. “Have you ever been hit here, Foggy?”

“I’ve been hit pretty much anywhere you can imagine.” The muscles under his fingertips lift into a crooked, self-deprecating half-smile, and Matt can’t understand why Foggy would put himself into Matt’s hands when he’s had enough experience to know better. “Some of it I learned better really fast, thank God, I need my kidneys. But that one?” He folds his hand over Matt’s, presses its palm close and tender to his cheek. “Yeah, Matt. I like that one.”

Foggy releases his hand. Matt’s still not sure he isn’t dreaming.

“Can I?” he asks reverently. “Please?”

“Mars,” he says. “And if you do it really well, I’ll give you a reward.” His voice drops into scorn. “But we both know how likely that is.”

Matt feels emptied out and warm and trusted, and he’s never been this hard in his life. 

He releases the elbow that’s immobilizing Foggy— he wants room. Calculations sprint through his head: how much sting Foggy can absorb, the surface area Matt should cover, the imagined shape of his hand against Foggy’s face. He lets the Devil slip back, out of the way of his precision. 

He traces his fingers along Foggy’s jawline, along the soft skin of his cheek, and, on an impulse, slowly passes the other hand over his eyes. Foggy doesn’t twitch— his eyelids have closed under Matt’s touch, then. He won’t know when it’s coming, won’t flinch away like Claire did. 

The Devil is trembling inside him, and he forces it back again. He’s not going to mess this up.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, draws his hand back, and strikes. Cracks his fingertips across Foggy’s beautiful, irreplaceable face.

Foggy cries out, sharp and electric. Arches up into the touch, the smell of desire and pain solidifying everywhere on his body.

“Matt,” he gasps, and there’s love in it, joy, an intensity of feeling that prickles the back of Matt’s eyes. “I… I admit it, I was wrong.” That he can speak levelly through the endorphins, through the heat radiating from his skin, is awe-inspiring. “You did good. You worked hard to hurt me just right, and you deserve a reward.”

His voice catches. “No need to be so calculated, my disaster. I can take whatever you give me.” He gropes for Matt's left hand, guides it to his other cheek. “Your reward, Matty, is that this time, the Devil gets to hit me, hard as he likes.”

There’s absolute conviction in his voice, and no fear.

Heat fills Matt’s eyes, sudden and shocking. Foggy _knows_ him. 

Matt can perfectly judge how much Foggy can take, the exact levels of pain that make his body respond. Deliver it to him with accuracy and precision. But Foggy can tell the difference, and he still wants the Devil. He still wants the _Devil_. He trusts them both to keep him safe.

He really does love Matt. All of Matt.

He doesn’t let himself think about it. He draws his hand back and cracks Foggy across the face with all the exhilaration, the exultation, in his entire being. It claps through them both like cathedral bells, Foggy’s outcry the perfect harmony.

When Foggy finally speaks, his voice is rich with happiness, and Matt imagines the peace of incense around them. “Thank you.” Foggy’s _thanking_ him for this. “Now tell me what he’s thinking.”

He’s thinking about what Foggy’s done for him today. Drawing the truth out of him in heated strands. Dissipating Matt’s guilt and anger and self. Offering this gift of vulnerability, this loving demand for both his darkness and his guttering, faint light.

He loses control of his last verbal block. He bends down and kisses Foggy _fervently,_ who makes a muffled noise of pleased surprise. He loses himself in the feelings, the smells, the sounds of exactly where he’s meant to be. 

When he’s done, when he reluctantly pulls apart from the kiss, he cups Foggy’s face and gives him the answer he’s been ordered to, the answer that’s grown in him for years. 

“I’m thinking that I don’t deserve you,” he says with his whole heart, with the vines and their blossoms and the effort they took to form. “I could never deserve you, and I don’t know why you gave me this chance. But I love you with every broken, disastrous part of me.”

There’s a heavy, warm silence. 

“Let me up,” Foggy says, heart spasming. “ _Now_.”

Matt freezes and backs off immediately, all the way off the bed. For a few heart-rending moments, he knows that he’s made a mistake. That this is what’s finally done it, what’s finally driven Foggy to leave. 

But the words he’s been listening for with such intensity aren’t coming. No Pluto. No Saturn. Foggy’s still here in this space with him. He’s not trying to leave.

Foggy clambers out of bed. “Planets,” he barks out. He doesn’t sound… angry, exactly. But his voice is vibrating with something.

“Venus,” Matt says, heart still twisting its way out of his chest. “Neptune.”

Foggy stands at his full height. “Did I give you permission to demean yourself?” His voice is harsh, unyielding.

“No,” he whispers.

“Did you even _ask_ for permission?”

“No.” He’s slipping back down into the comfort of Foggy’s demands, of answering him honestly, knowing Neptune will protect them. He’s sure it’s what Foggy intended.

“Damn right.” He advances on Matt. “You handed me the power to control you, the power to decide your significance, and then you tried to steal that power for yourself. _Apologize_.” 

“I’m sorry, Foggy.” His chest feels tight and hot. “I’m so sorry.”

“Good.” He grabs Matt’s chin and forces it upwards. The posture feels strange, prideful. “Now take it back,” he says, voice still dangerously sharp. “Take back what you said about deserving me.”

Matt halts in the middle of a breath. The words choke and clot in his throat. 

“I said _do it_ , Matt. Tell me you deserve me.” He slides his fingers into the indents of Matt’s ribcage and grips them in a precious, heavy pressure. “Tell me every broken inch of you is good enough for me to love.” 

It feels like it's crushing through his ribs to his lungs, piercing through him, forcing all the air out. Like he’s reaching inside and cradling Matt's heart. 

He breathes in tears. “I deserve you,” he whispers. 

“And the other part.”

His mouth opens. Closes. He’s trying to obey, to do what he’s supposed to, but everything around the words is frozen. “Foggy, I _can’t._ ”

“Too bad, Matt,” he says harshly. “You gave this to me, and unless you safeword out here, this is the truth I’m holding you down and taking.”

It’s a demand, but it’s a reminder, too. That if this is too much, he doesn’t have to. That he’s safe with Foggy, whatever he decides, always. That Foggy will always keep him safe.

Foggy asked this of him. Foggy’s heart is beating truth, truth, truth. He _believes_ what he’s telling Matt to say, no matter how dissonant it is with Matt’s own understanding. And here, in this space, he’s relinquished control of that understanding, of everything, to Foggy. 

He can do this. For Foggy.

He bows his head. “I… I’m good enough for you to love,” he stutters out, letting the words flow over his frozen places, wearing tiny furrows in them where cracks could form. 

“Good.” Foggy kisses his hair, leaves his lips warm against Matt’s scalp. “So good, Matty, and completely right. I love you so damn much.” He tilts Matt’s chin back up and kisses his forehead, an affection that lingers rather than haunts. “And you’re going to accept that love, no matter how much it hurts.” 

It's too much for Matt's words, the only thing he can do is let the emotion overflow into Foggy’s body. Foggy hisses as he digs the fingernails of both hands into his torso, as he claws curving lines along his chest. Into the crook of his waist. On each shoulder blade. “God, you’re perfect,” he gasps, voice shaking. “Exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

“You’re not telling me I’m repulsive,” he says weakly.

“I will. When I choose to. But this is what I choose for now.”

Matt scratches another line before his hands hesitate at an idea. “Can I do something more involved?”

“Whatever feels right,” Foggy says. “You have my permission.”

Back on the bed, Matt’s fingernails draw different marks, more intricate ones, across his stomach, along the edges of his glutes and his thighs— vines and leaves and flowers, turning Foggy over and over while he sighs until he’s marked him everywhere and Foggy is glowing with endorphins and joy. Until he’s floating in a pool of the marks, proof of Matt’s affection flaming over his entire body.

Foggy’s breathing is heavy, almost like he’s breathing through tears, but his voice is steady. “You drawing something on me, buddy?”

“Mmm,” he says.

When he’s finished, he sinks onto the bed beside Foggy, who pulls him tightly to his chest. His arms around Matt are shaking, but that’s okay. Matt’s shaking too. He can feel the puffy, heated shapes against his skin, burning like kindling. Outside, the city is its customary clash of sounds, but this space between them feels quiet. 

“I need you to tell me if this sounds good to you,” Foggy whispers in his ear. “Because this is how I want the rest of our night to go.” It’s the silky tone that’s commanded Matt the rest of the night, but quieter, fiercer. “Hold me until I’m through the endorphins. Then I’m going to go down on you for _hours_ , until you’re sobbing and all you can think of is my name,” he says. “Until you’re nothing but a heap of nerve endings, until you know with your whole body that every goddamn inch of you is mine, even the ones you hate.”

He wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. He’s already so close to his limits. But this is Foggy, who’s never gotten him wrong before, and the idea is perfect and not enough at the same time.

“Almost,” he says.

“What would you change?” Gentle, soothing, nonjudgmental.

“You said every inch. That means inside and out.” Foggy inhales again, like surprise. If it weren’t for Neptune he's not sure he could continue. “Will you…?”

He still can’t continue.

“Ask me for what you want,” Foggy says.

Every word he can think of is too coarse for the raw, tender way he feels about it right now. “I want to be _useful_ to you,” he says. “I want you inside me. Any way you want.” 

“Have you ever done that before?”

“No,” he says honestly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. But I trust you.”

“And I’m glad, and I’m so grateful,” he says. “So trust me here. You did just right, you did perfect. But we gotta take a break, and then we can talk about this more. Pluto.”

The word ripples through Matt, wakes him with anxiety, but Foggy’s calming words and his hand in his hair settle him back. Foggy wraps around him, a mass of fading endorphins, as cool disorientation leaks into Matt’s body. His senses don’t swim together this time, but a wave of confused misery crashes over him, and he shudders as Foggy speaks soothing, soft words in his ears. “You’re doing great, Matt. You’ve been doing great all night.”

They hold each other until their shaking stops, until the world regains its solidity. 

Foggy rests his hand warm on Matt’s shoulder. “How you feeling, Matt?”

“Um,” he says, solid but still disoriented. “Neptune.”

Foggy sits up, crossing his legs under him, leaving his hand where it is. “Can you stop taking my commands, just for a minute? This is important to me.”

He wants to slip back under, that might shake the coating of incompleteness from his skin, but this is important, Foggy said. “Sure,” he says from his comfortable pillow. A precarious assent, held together by surface tension. 

“You asked for something you haven’t done before.” His tone is steady, but shaded with concern. “The adrenaline, subspace, they can mess you up. Make you ask for things you’ll regret later.”

Trust bleeds into him, urges him to sink back under, and he luxuriates under its onslaught. Foggy’s always, always looking out for him. “I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done with you,” he says honestly, and listens to Foggy’s heart leap. Then he registers the other word. “Subspace?”

“Sorry.” Foggy shakes his head. “That wanting to do what I told you thing, where your brain goes quiet. You wouldn’t have said some of what you did if you weren’t there.” A twinge of unease, anxiety, quickly shoved down. “I had to ease you out a little so we could talk about this. On the topic of sex, Matt. Planet?”

“Neptune,” he says, and quirks up a smile. “Venus.”

Warm laughing surprise. “I promise you, I’m not done with you yet.” It echoes pleasantly in his memory. “But checking on you happens first.” Matt’s forehead tickles as Foggy touches it. “Gonna ask this as bluntly as possible: you were asking to bottom for me, right? I understood correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Sure you’re ready for that tonight? It can be a pretty big step— it’s hard to guess how you’ll react if you’ve never done it. And… we’ve got time.” Fingers card through his hair, a little warmer than the room. “We don’t have to try everything at once.”

Matt bursts out laughing until his eyes sting with tears, the urge to sink back under that surface tension fading. “You do remember who you're talking to, right?” He hauls himself into a seated position, legs piked in front of him. 

“Yeah, okay, fair,” Foggy chuckles. “But I’ve still gotta hear what you think of the idea in your right mind.”

This, for once, is a simple answer. “I think I’ve spent enough time waiting to be close to you,” he says with determination. “Foggy, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know what I’m asking for.”

Foggy plants a kiss to Matt’s temple, tender and wondering. “Then I’d be honored,” he says. “Let’s get started. Bathroom’s to your left, towels inside the cabinet there to the right. Bring me the softest one you can find.”

By the time he’s returned with a towel, Foggy has gathered more things. Lubricant. Nitrile gloves, the disposable kind used for household cleaning. Condoms.

Matt frowns. “I thought we talked about the testing.”

“It’s not for safety,” he says. “We just didn’t prepare for this, and if you don’t, it can get a little messy, buddy.” Matt considers the implications, and his face heats. “If you want to break to clean up in the shower, might be a good idea. It doesn’t bother me much, it’s just a human body thing, but I know you have your super-senses." Humor leaks into his tone. "And your super-guilt.”

“Yeah,” he says, face still hot. “Good idea.” Foggy’s heartbeat was absolutely steady when he said he didn’t mind, but Matt’s not willing to do that to him.

Foggy’s arm hooks around his waist, lips ghosting against his neck. “Come back soon,” he whispers, then releases him.

After a hasty but thorough few minutes in the shower, Matt returns to the bedroom, towel loosely wrapped around his waist, skin still steaming. Foggy dabs at his hips with the towel before tossing it aside.

“Lie on your back and put this under your hips.” He hands Matt another towel, the softer one he picked out earlier.

Once Matt’s settled, he sits between Matt’s legs and parts them with both hands. “Want me to make you come before I top you, Matt?” he says as Matt adjusts his hips. “Some people do better if they start out more relaxed, but it can make you more sensitive, too, and you’re already pretty sensitive.”

“No,” he says, and smirks. “You promised hours of blowjobs, and I expect you to deliver.”

“Greedy!” he jokes, but adds, more seriously, “But if that’s what you want, then you’ll have it, Matt. Exactly what you want.”

He dots kisses across Matt’s damp stomach, along the same line that made Matt arch and twitch the last time they were together, and the tip of his tongue connects them. Spirals in towards Matt’s cock. When Foggy’s almost reached it, he smiles against the skin of Matt’s inner thigh.

“Just so you know, when you start begging, I’m not gonna give you what you’re looking for. But if you need me to stop, please safeword. I know this can be kind of intense.”

“What’s the point of begging if I don’t get anything out of it?”

The smile widens. “There isn’t one. But I promise, Matt. You’ll do it anyway.”

He wraps his palm around Matt’s balls, stabilizes his cock at the correct angle with his other hand, and begins.

Nothing about the experience is entire. His mouth almost never completely closes over Matt’s cock. He swipes his tongue up the center, breaks for slow, sucking kisses up the side, mouths the tip, squeezes with his hand. When he does engulf Matt, it’s a maddening, measured slide, just enough tension and suction to keep him constantly, desperately hard.

As his body adjusts to the sensation of Foggy’s tongue, its pressure increases, Foggy reading his reactions and dancing them to the edge of bearability. Foggy’s _focused_ , heart slowed like Matt’s during meditation, and there’s no urgency to what he’s doing. This is something he loves, and he’s doing it with affection, with possessiveness, and with a comfortable intimacy that informs the way he’s able to draw it out for so long.

He’s not sure exactly what noises he’s making, but Foggy was right, some of them are sobs and some of them are him pleading for more, please, anything.

As Foggy keeps going, Matt fades. There’s just Foggy’s mouth smooth against his cock, the slight chill of the room, the desperate cries Foggy is strangling out of him. He’s floating again. He’s being useful to Foggy, giving himself over to make him happy. That’s all Matt’s ever wanted to do for him.

“Planets, Matt.” The words are soothing, but startling, a wave rocking him.

“Neptune,” he says. He’s never been more open to Foggy in his life. “As Venus as possible.” He’s not just submerged, anymore. He feels… baptized, washed clean, emerging into a new self.

Foggy’s observing him, head tilted at the familiar angle, heart beating tenderly. “Wow, you really are down there,” he whispers. “Thank you so much.”

A hand cups his face, a kiss presses to his forehead. “Tell me, Matt: do you still want me inside you? Would that feel good?”

“Yes,” he says. “Venus.”

“Okay.” He pops the cap of the lubricant, slides a glove on. “This is going to be a little chilly, fair warning.” He slathers the gel, heavy and viscous, over his index finger, and that finger presses against Matt, draws tender circles around his rim that make him inhale. It’s sensitive and the nitrile doesn’t feel as good as Foggy’s skin, and he feels impossibly raw about it and he wants Foggy’s mouth back on his cock and he doesn’t want anything to distract him from these new sensations.

“Fogs,” he says pleadingly. Pleading for what, he’s not sure.

“I’ve got you, Matt. Just let yourself relax into it.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected, if he’d known enough to expect anything specific. There’s no burning, not even a sense of alien intrusion. Just Foggy’s gloved finger, moving gently against the ring of muscle inside him, letting Matt’s body familiarize itself with him and decide he’s not a threat.

Eventually, the muscles relax, and Foggy slips his finger in further, all the way to the second knuckle, like Matt’s body is pulling Foggy in on its own. Foggy moves his finger in a larger, patient, circular motion, and it rasps inside him. 

“Dammit, got too ambitious. Sorry, Matt, this is going to be a little uncomfortable.” He pulls his finger out slowly, pausing every time the nitrile catches. Foggy’s right, it’s uncomfortable, but he withdraws it with minimal pain. “We need more lube. Tons of it, I might overdo it this time.”

He repeats his previous actions three, four times, adding more lube to his finger every time, until cold slick pools on the towel beneath Matt’s hips and Matt feels slippery, almost squeaky. “All right, now back to the fun stuff.” He slips his finger back inside and makes that same broad, circular movement until he’s looser and aching. “Ready for another finger, buddy?”

“Yeah.”

The second finger is a tighter fit, and he clenches again, hard enough that Foggy’s fingers cross inside him. But Foggy’s patient. He waits through some of the spasms, relaxes him through others, until his fingers can separate, until their stretch is comfortable and thrilling both.

“You okay if I try something?”

“You haven’t steered me wrong yet.” 

Foggy carefully twists his fingers around to face the ceiling, then crooks them upwards. Matt abruptly misplaces time and space, anything other than what Foggy’s fingers are doing inside him.

Foggy laughs, breathless, _happy_ , at the noise he’s pulled out of Matt, and there’s the sound of him squeezing himself through his boxers. “I hoped you’d like it this much.” His fingers massage into that same spot, slow, until Matt’s writhing with it.

“You said you wanted me both inside and out,” Foggy says. “If you meant at the same time—”

“ _Please,_ ” he says, a little frantic.

His facial muscles pull upwards. “Since you don’t want to come yet,” he says. “Tell me if you get close. Soon as you know. That’s an order.”

Fingers press firm and a warm mouth closes over his cock. He’s outright sobbing at the intense mix of sensations and he can’t focus on anything enough to care. He’s thrashing, body dashed about in waters that are rapids now, no longer quiet above him, and he feels urgency building in him.

“Getting close,” he gasps out, and Foggy pulls his mouth off. Matt tries to thrust against Foggy’s hand, and Foggy chuckles and gently presses his hips against the bed with the other hand. Matt stills obediently.

“You still want me to…” hesitant, and Matt’s gratified that none of the words seem right to Foggy either, “to fuck you, Matt?”

“Very much.”

“OK.” He twines his fingers with Matt’s. “Now I’m going to ask you to do something for me, Matty. You get to pick here, and again, all the decisions are the right ones.” 

“Do you want me to wear a condom or not? I’m comfortable either way.” He says that, but his voice trembles: this is unaccustomed for him, unusually vulnerable. “We both know each other’s status. One way might chafe, one might be messy, and it’s your body and your comfort level. I leave it up to you.”

_At least I’m too Catholic to insist on condoms_ , he remembers himself saying, as if from a lifetime ago. It was never really true, though. He’d _wanted_ condoms, wanted to protect himself and Elektra from each other, from consequences they couldn’t undo. But she didn’t like them, and he ignored his discomfort, shifted himself and molded himself into being a man she could love.

But this is profoundly different. He and Foggy established safety and comfort before they even got into bed together. The decision has the same weight and importance for both of them, the same level of vulnerability. With Foggy, he gets to make a decision based on what’s best for him, on what he really wants. He doesn’t need to be remolded. 

He swallows.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t want one.”

You can make the same decision twice with entirely different implications.

He wants to start this thing between them holding Foggy as close as humanly possible, knowing exactly what he feels like. He wants Foggy knowing that he trusts him, that human bodies aren't going to get in the way of wanting to be close to him. That he’s willing to be vulnerable with him, maybe even messy.

Foggy learned from the first night, because even though Matt can _feel_ his impulse to ask again, to confirm, he swallows it. “Okay, Matt,” he says shakily. 

He untwines his hand from Matt’s, the fingers inside Matt retreat, there's the sticky sound of nitrile peeling back from skin. Matt hears the bottle pop open again, fumblingly, hears slick sounds. Feels vibrations that he no longer has the discernment to identify. Then Foggy is kneeling between Matt’s legs on the bed, threading their hands back together. “Put your feet over my shoulders.” 

After Matt complies, he presses Matt’s legs back towards his head, lines his hips up with Matt’s. “You ready?”

Matt smiles. Squeezes Foggy’s hand. “Venus.”

Foggy pushes inside with his characteristic slowness and thoughtfulness. And with how intense and amazing everything else has been, this shouldn’t be different, but it is. Everything feels slowed, and he’s overwhelmed by a sense of Foggy’s presence, of shared intimacy.

Foggy tries a couple of methodical thrusts. “Does this pace work for you?” It’s strained for him, Matt can tell, but not painfully so.

“Yes,” he thinks he says, but he can’t pick out his own experience through the sense of unity. The corners of his eyes sting. He’s not tearing up, per se, he’s channeling that raw connectedness and his awareness of Foggy with each thrust.

Foggy’s already-measured pace pauses. “You okay, Matt?” 

“Yes, it’s… it’s good.” 

“Good.” He resumes, sliding slow inside Matt. Too slow, suddenly, not urgent enough. He hitches his hips into it and the pace picks up, the thrusts deepen, euphoria spreads through his nerve endings. “Foggy,” he gasps.

“I’m here, Matt,” he says. “You’re being so good.” His hand brushes over Matt’s hair. “Touch yourself for me.”

He closes his hand around his cock, distantly, and the intimacy swallows him. He keeps pace with Foggy’s strokes, doesn’t let their sensations compete. Foggy wanted this and he’s Foggy’s. 

“Tilt your pelvis up.”

He does, and suddenly Foggy’s thrusts are hitting the same spot his fingers did. Everything whites out other than a sense of belonging, an overwhelming sense of rightness, and the slightest chafing. He’s getting so close, and he’s vaguely aware of choking the words out.

“Come for me,” Foggy whispers. 

The orgasm is long, intense, it grabs at Matt until he’s caught in it, he presses his head into the mattress, it feels like such a cliche but he clutches the bedsheets and Foggy’s hand. He feels himself spasming around Foggy.

“God, Matt,” Foggy gasps, and after a few more thrusts he’s following Matt, pulsing warm inside him. 

His fingers are still twined with Matt’s, but gummy with sweat now. Foggy softens inside Matt for a while, as that unsteady mingling of senses starts to encroach. “You did so well,” he hears at a distance. “ _So_ well for me.” 

Foggy pulls out of Matt, slowly, and the sensitive nerve endings protest. Tissues wipe gently at the cooling mess on his stomach. A body flops next to his, arms curl around his shoulder, and Foggy tucks Matt’s face into his neck, chin resting on the top of his head.

He feels broken open and raw and hollow and wholer than he’s felt since Elektra. The whirlpool of blurred senses is deeper this time, but the waters are clearer, the rightness swirls through it. He loses everything specific again for a long time except the warmth of Foggy's tone, the anchoring of his arm and chin around Matt.

Eventually, the warm sounds separate into words, seep into Matt’s consciousness. “...you’re mine and you’re safe and you’re good, long as you need it. I’m proud of you. That was really hard and you did so good, Matt. More than I dreamed of. You did everything I asked, exactly what you were supposed to. You’re amazing. I _love_ you. You’ve always been so brave.”

Everything true. Every word. He exhales, stretches, luxuriates.

Foggy’s heart skips. “You back with me?”

“Mostly.”

Foggy doesn’t let him go. Most people would be stroking him affectionately, in Matt’s experience, but Foggy isn’t moving, a small, thoughtful gesture that makes Matt feel understood. Any movement would send his nerves firing. 

“How are you feeling?” Foggy says softly.

Matt considers it. He’d willingly broken the lines down between him and Foggy, between Matt and the Devil, and now that they’ve reformed, they feel clearer. Stronger. And Foggy accepted all of him tonight, everything he hides behind those lines.

“Overwhelmed,” he says, equally softly. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Me too, Matt.” He hesitates, his pulse elevates. “You meant it, right? You love me? It wasn’t just the adrenaline talking?”

He curls his face further into Foggy’s neck. “I did,” he says into the skin there. “I do.”

“I’m so glad.” Foggy squeezes his sweat-sticky fingers. “I hope it’s okay that things… changed, after you told me,” he says. “I know we didn’t discuss it, but I didn’t know how to lie about how I felt, hearing you say that for the first time.”

Matt smiles against him. “It was exactly right,” he says. “And we’ll have other chances.”

“Yeah we will,” Foggy grins, the movement of his chin crinkling a few hairs at the top of Matt’s head. “We can get deeper into the violence next time. And you can try topping me, if you want.”

He chuckles. “I’d like that.”

The fight is still under his skin. The fight will probably always be under his skin. But now Foggy’s here to fight it with him.

Foggy’s heart is starting to slow, the comfortable beat of satiation and sleep. Matt snakes his arms out from between them and wraps them around his torso. “Hey Fogs?”

“Mmmm?”

“Thanks,” he says. “This has been a really good September.”

September started with a car roof covered with grass pollen, Elektra telling him the stars he should see in the sky. Since then he’s met constellations of people— each one a star blazing past him, scattering him with meteorites and memories, coating his skin with stardust. Now he traces those constellations onto Foggy’s skin and feels the heat of Elektra fading from his own.

He holds Foggy closer. Millions of miles away, the planets float weightless in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, those of you who’ve followed along with this— those who’ve said thoughtful and encouraging things, those who haven’t said a word but enjoyed it anyway. I appreciate you all.
> 
> There’s just a little more of this universe coming: a (much shorter!) companion piece from Foggy’s POV. You should see it within the next week or two.
> 
> Also I guess if you want to hear me ramble some more on Tumblr [it me](https://iheartallthethings.tumblr.com/).


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